
Class _£ji^ 
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^ 



CORRIGHT 0EP08A 



BY JULIAN STREET 



THE NEED OF CHANGE 

Fifth Anniversary Edition. Illustrated by- 
James Montgomery Flagg. Cloth, 50 
cents net. Leather, $1.00 net. 

PARIS A LA CARTE 
"Gastronomic promenades" in Paris. Il- 
lustrated by May Wilson Preston. Cloth, 
60 cents net. 

WELCOME TO OUR CITY 

Mr. Street plays host to the stranger in 
New York. Illustrated by James Mont- 
gomery Flagg and Wallace Morgan. 
Cloth, $1.00 net. 

SHIP-BORED 
Who hasn't been? Illustrated by May 
Wilson Preston. Cloth, 50 cents net. 

ABROAD AT HOME 

Cheerful ramblings and adventures in 
American cities and other places. Illus- 
trated by Wallace Morgan. Cloth, $2.50 
net. 

THE GOLDFISH 

A Christmas story for children between 
six and sixty. Colored Illustrations and 
page Decorations. Cloth, 70 cents net. 




The St. Francis at tea-time. — With her hotels San Francisco is New- 
York, but with her people she is San Francisco — which comes near 
being the apotheosis of praise 



ABROAD AT HOME 



AMERICAN RAMBLINGS, OBSERVATIONS, AND 
ADVENTURES OF 

JULIAN STREET 



WITH PICTORIAL SIDELIGHTS 
BV 

WALLACE MORGAN 




5^iM?w»>^«rf!«4& 



NEW YORK 
THE CENTURY CO. 

1914 



^ 



tILt 



Copyright, 1914, by 
The Century Co. 

Copyright, igi4, by 
P. F. Collier & Son, Inc. 

Published, November, igi4 



NOV 25 1914 

©C1.AI3H8573 



TO MY FATHER 
the companion of my first railroad journey 



The Author takes this opportunity to thank the old 
friends, and the new ones, who assisted him in so many 
ways, upon his travels. Especially, he makes his affec- 
tionate acknowledgment to his wise and kindly com- 
panion, the Illustrator, whose admirable drawings are 
far from being his only contribution to this volume. 

-J. S. 

New York, 

October, 1914. 



CONTENTS 



STEPPING WESTWARD 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I STEPPING WESTWARD 3 

II BIFURCATED BUFFALO ............. 21 

III CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS ...... ... 40 

IV MORE CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS 48 

MICHIGAN MEANDERINGS 

V DETROIT THE DYNAMIC 65 

VI AUTOMOBILES AND ART -j-j 

VII THE M^CENAS OF THE MOTOR gi 

VIII THE CURIOUS CITY OF BATTLE CREEK ....... 105 

IX KALAMAZOO I2i 

X GRAND RAPIDS THE "ELECT" 127 

CHICAGO 

XI A MIDDLE-WESTERN MIRACLE 13Q 

XII FIELD'S AND THE "TRIBUNE" . 150 

XIII THE STOCKYARDS 164 

XIV THE HONORABLE HINKY DINK 173 

XV AN OLYMPIAN PLAN - » 181 

XVI LOOKING BACKWARD -.187 

"IN MIZZOURA" 



XVII SOMNOLENT ST. LOUIS 



201 



XVIII THE FINER SIDE 22 

XIX HANNIBAL AND MARK TWAIN ........ 



• • • 237 

XX PIKE AND POKER , 253 

XXI OLD RIVER DAYS ..." 267 

ix 



X 

CHAPTER 
XXII 

XXIII 

XXIV 

XXV 

XXVI 

XXVII 

XXVIII 

XXIX 



XXX 

XXXI 

XXXII 

XXXIII 

XXXIV 

XXXV 

XXXVI 

XXXVII 

XXXVIII 

XXXIX 



CONTENTS 
THE BEGINNING OF THE WEST 



KANSAS CITY 

ODDS AND ENDS .... 
COLONEL NELSON'S "STAR" 
KEEPING A PROMISE . . . 
THE TAME LION .... 
KANSAS JOURNALISM . . 
A COLLEGE TOWN .. • • 
MONOTONY - 



THE MOUNTAINS AND THE COAST 

UNDER PIKE'S PEAK 

HITTING A HIGH SPOT 

COLORADO SPRINGS . 

CRIPPLE CREEK . . „ 

THE MORMON CAPITAL .......... 

THE SMITHS ......... o ... . 

PASSING PICTURES ........... 

SAN FRANCLSCO ............ 

"BEFORE THE FIRE" ..'......,., 

AN EXPOSITION AND A "BOOSTER" ..... 



PAGE 

• 275 

• 291 

• 302 

• 313 

• 323 

• 337 
■ 345 
- 365 



379 
400 

417 
434 
439 
454 
465 
474 
488 
498 



XL NEW YORK AGAIN 



507 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

The St. Francis at tea-time. — With her hotels San Francisco is New 
York, but with her people she is San Francisco — which comes 
near being the apotheosis of praise Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

1 was moving about my room, my hands full of hairbrushes and tooth- 
brushes and clothesbrushes and shaving brushes ; my head full of 
railroad trains, and hills, and plains, and valleys 51/ 

A dusky redcap took my baggage 12 f''' 

What scenes these black, pathetic people had passed through — were 

passing through! Why did they not look up in wonderment? . 17 - 

We made believe we wanted to go out and smoke. And as we left 

our seats she made believe she did n't know that we were going . 2^ ^ 

The gentleman who favored linen mesh was a fat, prosperous-look- 
ing person, whose gold-rimmed spectacles reflected flying lights 
from out of doors 26 ^ 

In a few hours there was enough shame around us to have lasted all 

the reformers and muckrakers I know a whole month . . . . 32 ^'' 

My companion and I made excuses to go downstairs and wash our 
hands in the pubHc washroom, just for the pleasure of doing so 
without fear of being attacked by a swarthy brigand with a brush 35 

I was prepared to take the field against all comers, not only in favor 
of simplicity, but in favor of anything and everything which was 
favored by my hostess 38 ' 

Chamber of Commerce representatives were with us all the first day 

and until we went to our rooms, late at night 43 '^ 

It is an Elizabethan building, with a heavy timbered front, suggest- 
ing some ancient, hospitable, London coffee house where wits of 
old were used to meet 46 k 

In this charming, homelike old building, with its grandfather's clock, 
its Windsor chairs, and its open wood fires, a visitor finds it hard 
to realize that he is in the "west" 53 -' 

Down by the docks we saw gigantic, strange machines, expressive of 
Cleveland's lake commerce— machines for loading and unloading 
ships in the space of a few hours 60 '^' 

In midstream passes a continual parade of freighters . . . and in 

xi 



xii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 

PAGE 

their swell you may see, teetering, all kinds of craft, from proud 
white yachts to canoes 71 

The automobile has not only changed Detroit from a quiet old town 
into a rich, active city, but upon the drowsy romance of the old 
days it has superimposed the romance of modern business . . -74 

Of course there was order in that place, of course there was system — 
relentless system — terrible "efficiency" — but to my mind it ex- 
pressed but one thing, and that thing was delirium 97 * 

Never, since then, have I heard men jeering over women as they look 
in dishabille, without wondering if those same men have ever seen 
themselves clearly in the mirrored washroom of a sleeping car . 112 

"Can that stuff," admonished Miss Buck in her easy, offhand manner . 117 ^ 

She was saying to herself (and, unconsciously, to us, through the 
window) : "If / had played that hand, I never should have done 
it that way!" 124 '■• 

Rodin's "Thinker" 145 y 

Chicago's skyline from the docks. ... A city which rebuilt itself after 
the fire ; in the next decade doubled its size ; and now has a popu- 
lation of two million, plus a city of about the size of San Fran- 
cisco 160 

Two rabbis, old bearded men, performed the rites with long, slim, 

shiny blades 177. 

As I stood there, studying the temperament of pigs, I saw the butcher 

looking up at me. ... I have never seen such eyes 192 

The bold front of Michigan Avenue along Grant Park . . . great 
buildings wreathed in whirling smoke and that allegory of infinity 
which confronts one who looks eastward 196 ' 

The dilapidation of the quarter has continued steadily from Dickens's 
day to this, and the beauty now to be discovered there is that of 
decay and ruin 205 

The three used bridges which cross the Mississippi River at St. Louis 

are privately controlled toll bridges 212 l- 

The skins are handled in the raw state . . . with the result that the 
floor of the exchange is made slippery by animal fats, and that the 
olfactory organs encounter smells not to be matched in any zoo . 221 

St. Louis needs to be taken by the hand and led around to some mu- 
nicipal-improvement tailor, some civic haberdasher 225 

We came upon the "Mark Twain House." . . . And to think that, 
wretched as this place was, the Clemens family were forced to 
leave it for a time because they were too poor to live there . . 240 

At one side is an alley running back to the house of Huckleberry Finn, 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xiii 

FACING 
PAGE 

and in that alley stood the historic fence which young Sam 
Clemens cajoled the other boys into whitewashing for him . . 244 ^ 

Never outside of Brittany and Normandy have I seen roads so full of 

animals as those of Pike County 253 ^ 

Mr. Roberts is a wonder — nothing less. There 's a book in him, and 
I hope that somebody will write it, for I should like to read that 
book 26S 

Looking down from Kersey Coates Drive, one sees . . . the appalling 
web of railroad tracks, crammed with freight cars, which seen 
through a softening haze of smoke, resemble a relief map — strange, / 

vast and pictorial 289 ''' 

Colonel Nelson is a "character." Even if he did n't own the "Star," 
... he would be a "character," ... I have called him a volcano; 
he is more like one than any other man I have ever met . . . 304 i 

Mr. Fish informed me that the waters of Excelsior Springs resemble 
the waters of Homburg, the favorite watering place of the late 
King Edward — or, rather, I think he put it the other way round . 322 

We strolled in the direction of the old house, that house of tragedy in 
which the family lived in the troublous times. ... It was there 
that the Pinkertons threw the bomb 328 ' 

It was Frank James. . . . He looks more like a prosperous farmer or 

the president of a rural bank than like a bandit. In his manner ^ .. 

there is a strong note of the showman 335 

The campus seems to have "just growed." . . . Nevertheless, there is 
a sort of homely charm about the place, with its unimposing, hel- 
ter-skelter piles of brick and stone 353 

Even at sea the great bowl of the sky had never looked to me so vast 368 ^ 

The little towns of western Kansas are far apart and have, like the 

surrounding scenery, an air of sadness and desolation .... 2>Ti '^ 

In the lobby of the Brown Palace Hotel we saw several old fellows, 
sitting about, looking neither prosperous nor busy, but always 
talking mines. A kind word, or even a pleasant glance, is enough 
to set them off 380 '/ 

"Ain't Nature wonderful!" 405 

I was by this time very definitely aware that I had my fill of winter 
motoring in the mountains. The mere reluctance I felt as we be- 
gan to climb had now developed into a passionate desire to desist 412 ^ 

The homes of Colorado Springs -eally explain the place and the so- 
ciety is as cosmopolitan as the architecture 417 ; 

On the road to Cripple Creek we were always turning, always turn- 
ing upward 432 



xiv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



FACING 
PAGE 



We were invited to meet the President of the Mormon Church and 
some members of his family at the Beehive House, his official 
residence 452 

The Lion House — a large adobe building in which formerly resided 
the rank and file of Brigham Young's wives 461 

The Cliff House has a Sorrento setting and hectic turkey-trotting 
nights 4()8 

The Salt-water pool, Olympic Club, San Francisco 477 

The switchboard of the Chinatown telephone exchange is set in a 
shrine and the operators are dressed in Chinese silks .... 496 

We believed we had encountered every kind of "booster" that creeps, 
crawls, walks, crows, cries, bellows, barks or brays, but it re- 
mained for the Exposition to show us a new specimen .... 504 

New York — Everyone is in a hurry. Everyone is dodging everyone 
else. Everyone is trying to keep his knees from being knocked 
by swift-passing suitcases 513 



I 



STEPPING WESTWARD 



ABROAD AT HOME 

CHAPTER I 
STEPPING WESTWARD 

"What, you are stepping zvestwardF" — "Yea." 
— 'Twould be a wildish destiny, 
If we, who thus together roam 
In a strange Land, and far from home, 
Were in this place the guests of Chance: 
Yet who would stop or fear to advance, 
Though home or shelter he had none. 
With such a sky to lead him on? 

— Wordsworth . 

FOR some time I have desired to travel over the 
United States — to ramble and observe and seek 
adventure here, at home, not as a tourist with a 
short vacation and a round-trip ticket, but as a kind of 
privateer with a roving commission. The more I have 
contemplated the possibility the more it has engaged me. 
For we Americans, though we are the most restless race 
in the world, with the possible exception of the Bedouins, 
almost never permit ourselves to travel, either at home, 
or abroad, as the "guests of Chance." We always go 
from one place to another with a definite purpose. We 

3 



ABROAD AT HOME 

never amble. On the boat, going to Europe, we talk 
of leisurely trips away from the "beaten track," but we 
never take them. After we land we rush about obsessed 
by "sights," seeing with the eyes of guides and thinking 
the "canned" thoughts of guidebooks. 

In order to accomplish such a trip as I had thought 
of I was even willing to write about it afterward. 
Therefore I went to see a publisher and suggested that 
he send me out upon my travels. 

I argued that Englishmen, from Dickens to Arnold 
Bennett, had "done" America; likewise Frenchmen and 
Germans. And we have traveled over there and writ- 
ten about them. But Americans who travel at home to 
write (or, as in my case, write to travel) almost always 
go in search of some specific thing: to find corruption 
and expose it, to visit certain places and describe them 
in detail, or to catch, exclusively, the comic side. For 
my part, I did not wish to go in search of anything 
specific. I merely wished to take things as they might 
come. And — speaking of taking things — I wished, 
above all else, to take a good companion, and I had him 
all picked out: a man whose drawings I admire almost 
as much as I admire his disposition ; the one being who 
might endure my presence for some months, sharing 
with me his joys and sorrows and collars and cigars, and 
yet remain on speaking terms with me. 

The publisher agreed to all. Then I told my New 
York friends that I was going. 

They were incredulous. That is the New York atti- 

4 




I was moving about my room, my hands full of hairbrushes and toothbrushes 
and clothesbrushes and shaving brushes; my head full of railroad trains, and hills, 
and plains, and valleys 



STEPPING WESTWARD 

tude of mind. Your "typical New Yorker" really 
thinks that any man who leaves Manhattan Island for 
any destination other than Europe or Palm Beach must 
be either a fool who leaves voluntarily or a criminal 
taken off by force. For the picturesque criminal he 
may be sorry, but for the fool he has scant pity. 



At a farewell party which they gave us on the night 
before we left, one of my friends spoke, in an emo- 
tional moment, of accompanying us as far as Buffalo. 
He spoke of it as one might speak of going up to Baffin 
Land to see a friend off for the Pole. 

I welcomed the proposal and assured him of safe con- 
duct to that point in the "interior." I even showed him 
Buff'alo upon the map. But the sight of that wide- 
flung chart of the United States seemed only to alarm 
him. After regarding it with a solemn and uneasy eye 
he shook his head and talked long and seriously of 
his responsibilities as a family man — of his duty to his 
wife and his limousine and his elevator boys. 

It was midnight when good-bys were said and my 
companion and I returned to our respective homes to 
pack. There were many things to be put into trunks 
and bags. A clock struck three as my weary head 
struck the pillow. I closed my eyes. Then when, as it 
seemed to me, I was barely dozing off there came a 
knocking at my bedroom door. 

"What is it?" 

S 



ABROAD AT HOME 

''Six o'clock," replied the voice of our trusty Han- 
nah. 

As I arose I knew the feelings of a man condemned 
to death who hears the warden's voice in the chilly 
dawn: "Come! It is the fatal hour!" 

When, fifteen minutes later, doubting Hannah (who 
knows my habits in these early morning matters) 
knocked again, I was moving about my room, my 
hands full of hairbrushes and toothbrushes and clothes 
brushes and shaving brushes; my head full of railroad 
trains, and hills, and plains and valleys, and snow- 
capped mountain peaks, and smoking cities and smok- 
ing-cars, and people I had never seen. 

The breakfast table, shining with electric light, had 
a night-time aspect which made eggs and coffee seem 
bizarre. I do not like to breakfast by electric light, and 
I had done so seldom until then; but since that time I 
have done it often — sometimes to catch the early morn- 
ing train, sometimes to catch the early morning man. 

Beside my plate I found a telegram. I ripped the 
envelope and read this final punctuation-markless mes- 
sage from a literary friend: 

you are going to discover the united states dont he 
afraid to say so 

That is an awful thing to tell a man in the very early 
morning before breakfast. In my mind I answered 
with the cry: "But I am afraid to say so!" 

And now, months later, I am still afraid to say so, be- 

6 



STEPPING WESTWARD 

cause, despite a certain truth the statement may contain, 
it seems to me to sound ridiculous, and ponderous, and 
solemn with an asinine solemnity. 

It spoiled my last meal at home — that well-meant tele- 
gram. 

I had not swallowed my second cup of coffee when, 
from her switchboard, a dozen floors below, the operator 
telephoned to say my taxi had arrived; whereupon I 
left the table, said good-by to those I should miss most 
of all, took up piy suit case and departed. 

Beside the curb there stood an unhappy-looking taxi- 
cab, shivering as with malaria, but the driver showed 
a face of brazen cheerfulness which, considering the 
hour and the circumstances, seemed almost indecent. 
I could not bear his smile. Hastily I blotted him from 
view beneath a pile of baggage. 

With a jerk we started. Few other vehicles disputed 
our right to the whole width of Seventy-second Street 
as we skimmed eastward. Farewell, O Central Park! 
Farewell, O Plaza! And you, Fifth Avenue, empty, 
gray, deserted now; so soon to flash with fascinating 
traffic. Farewell ! Farewell ! 

Presently, in that cavern in which vehicles stop be- 
neath the overhanging cliffs of the Grand Central Sta- 
tion, we drew up. A dusky redcap took my baggage. I 
alighted and, passing through glass doors, gazed down 
on the vast concourse. Far up in the lofty spaces of 
the room there seemed to hang a haze, through which 
— from that amazing and audacious ceiling, painted like 

7 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the heavens — there twinkled, feebly, morning stars of 
gold. Through three arched windows, towering to the 
height of six-story buildings, the eastern light streamed 
softly in, combining with the spaciousness around me, 
and the blue above, to fill me with a curious sense of 
paradox: a feeling that I was indoors yet out of doors. 

The glass dials of the four-faced clock, crowning the 
information bureau at the center of the concourse, 
glowed with electric light, yellow and sickly by con- 
trast with the day which poured in ^ through those 
windows. Such stupendous windows! Gargantuan 
spider webs whose threads were massive bars of steel. 
And suddenly I saw the spider! He emerged from 
one side, passed nimbly through the center of the web, 
disappeared, emerged again, crossed the second web 
and the third in the same way, and was gone — a two- 
legged spider, walking importantly and carrying papers 
in his hand. Then another spider came, and still an- 
other, each black against the light, each on a different 
level. For those windows are, in reality, more than 
windows. They are double walls of glass, supporting 
floors of glass — layer upon layer of crystal corridor, sus- 
pended in the air as by genii out of the Arabian Nights. 
And through these corridors pass clerks who never 
dream that they are princes in the modern kind of fairy 
tale. 

As yet the torrent of commuters had not begun to 
pour through the vast place. The floor lay bare and 
tawny like the bed of some dry river waiting for the 

8 



STEPPING WESTWARD 

melting of the mountain snows. Across the river bed 
there came a herd of cattle — Italian immigrants, dark- 
'eyed, dumb, patient, uncomprehending. Two weeks 
ago they had left Naples, with plumed Vesuvius loom- 
ing to the left; yesterday they had come to Ellis 
Island; last night they had slept on station benches; 
to-day they were departing; to-morrow or the next day 
they would reach their destination in the West. Sud- 
denly there came to me from nowhere, but with a 
poignance that seemed to make it new, the platitudinous 
thought that life is at once the commonest and strangest 
of experiences. What scenes these black, pathetic 
people had passed through — were passing through! 
Why did they not look up in wonderment? Why were 
their bovine eyes gazing blankly ahead of them at noth- 
ing? What had dazed them so — the bigness of the 
world? Yet, after all, why should they understand? 
What American can understand Italian railway sta- 
tions? They have always seemed to me to express 
a sort of mild insanity. But the Grand Central 
terminal I fancy I do understand. It seems to me to 
be much more than a successful station. In its stupefy- 
ing size, its brilliant utilitarianism, and, most of all, in 
its mildly vulgar grandeur, it seems to me to express, 
exactly, the city to which it is a gate. That is some- 
thing every terminal should do unless, as in the Case of 
the Pennsylvania terminal in New York, it expresses 
something finer. The Grand Central Station is New 
York, but that classic marvel over there on Seventh 

9 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Avenue is more: it is something for New York to live 
up to. 

When I had bought my ticket and moved along to 
count my change there came up to the ticket win- 
dow a big man in a big ulster who asked in a big voice 
for a ticket to Grand Rapids. As he stood there 
I was conscious of a most un-New- York-like wish to 
say to him : "After a while I 'm going to Grand 
Rapids, too!" And I think that, had I said it, he 
would have told me that Grand Rapids was ''some town" 
and asked me to come in and see him, when I got there, 
— "at the plant," I think he would have said. 

As I crossed the marble floor to take the train I caught 
sight of my traveling companion leaning rigidly against 
the wall beside the gate. He did not see me. Reach- 
ing his side, I greeted him. 

He showed no signs of life. I felt as though I had 
addressed a waxwork figure. 

"Good morning," I repeated, calling him by name. 

"I 've just finished packing," he said. "I never got 
to bed at all." 

At that moment a most attractive person put in an ap- 
pearance. She was followed by a redcap carrying a 
lovely little Russia leather bag. A few years before I 
should have called a bag like that a dressing case, but 
watching that young woman as she tripped along with 
steps restricted by the slimness of her narrow satin 
skirt, it occurred to me that modes in baggage may have 

10 



STEPPING WESTWARD 

changed like those in woman's dress and that her ht- 
tle leather case might be a modern kind of wardrobe 
trunk. 

My companion took no notice of this agitating pres- 
ence. 

"Look!" I whispered. ''SJie is going, too." 

Stiffly he turned his head. 

"The pretty girl," he remarked, with sad philosophy, 
"is always in the other car. That 's life." 

"No," I demurred. "It 's only early morning 
stuff." 

And I was right, for presently, in the parlor car, we 
found our seats across the aisle from hers. 

Before the train moved out a boy came through with 
books and magazines, proclaiming loudly the "last call 
for reading matter." 

I think the radiant being believed him, for she bought 
a magazine — a magazine of pretty girls and piffle: 
just the sort we knew she 'd buy. As for my companion 
and me, we made no purchases, not crediting the state- 
ment that it was really the "last call." But I am im- 
pelled to add that having, later, visited certain book 
stores of Buffalo, Cleveland, and Detroit, I now see 
truth in what the boy said. 

For a time my companion and I sat and tried to make 
believe we did n't know that some one was across the 
aisle. And she sat there and played with pages and 
made believe she did n't know we made believe. When 
that had gone on for a time and our train was slipping 

II 



ABROAD AT HOME 

silently along beside the Hudson, we felt we could n't 
stand it any longer, so we made believe we wanted to 
go out and smoke. And as we left our seats she made 
believe she did n't know that we were going. 

Four men were seated in the smoking room. Two 
were discussing the merits of flannel versus linen mesh 
for winter underwear. The gentleman who favored 
linen mesh was a fat, prosperous-looking person, whose 
gold-rimmed spectacles reflected flying lights from out 
of doors. 

"H you '11 wear linen," he declared with deep con- 
viction — "and it wants to be a union suit, too — you '11 
never go back to shirt and drawers again. I '11 guar- 
antee that!" The other promised to try it. Pres- 
ently I noticed that the first speaker had somehow got- 
ten all the way from linen union suits to Portland, Me., 
on a hot Sunday afternoon. He said it was the hottest 
day last year, and gave the date and temperatures at 
certain hours. He mentioned his wife's weight, details 
of how she suffered from the heat, the amount of flesh 
she lost, the name of the steamer on which they finally 
escaped from Portland to New York, the time of leav- 
ing and arrival, and many other little things. 

I left him on the dock in New York. A friend (name 
and occupation given) had met him with a touring car 
(make and horsepower specified). What happened 
after that I do not know, save that it was nothing of 
importance. Important things don't happen to a man 
like that. 

12 




A dusky redcap took my baggage 



STEPPING WESTWARD 

Two other men of somewhat Oriental aspect were 
seated on the leather sofa talking the unintelligible jar- 
gon of the factory. But, presently, emerged an anec- 
dote. 

"I was going through our sorting room a while 
back," said the one nearest the window, "and I hap- 
pened to take notice of one of the girls. I had n't seen 
her before. She was a new hand — a mighty pretty 
girl, with a nice, round figure and a fine head of hair. 
She kept herself neater than most of them girls do. I 
says to myself: 'Why, if you was to take that girl and 
dress her up and give her a little education you would n't 
be ashamed to take her anywheres.' Well, I went over 
to her table and I says: 'Look at here, little girl; you 
got a fine head of hair and you 'd ought to take care of 
it. Why don't you wear a cap in here in all this dust?' 
It tickled her to death to be noticed like that. And, 
sure enough, she did get a cap. I says to her : 'That 's 
the dope, little girl. Take care of your looks. You '11 
only be young and pretty like this once, you know.' So 
one thing led to another, and one day, a while later, she 
come up to the office to see about her time slip or some- 
thing, and I jollied her a little. I seen she was a pretty 
smart kid at that, so — " At that point he lowered his 
voice to a whisper, and leaned over so that his thick, 
smiling lips were close to his companion's ear. The 
motion of the train caused their hat brims to interfere. 
Disturbed by this, the raconteur removed his derby. 
His head was absolutely bald. 



13 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Well, I am not sure that I should have liked to hear 
the rest. I shifted my attention back to the apostle of 
the linen union suit, who had talked on, unremittingly. 
His conversation had, at least, the merit of entire frank- 
ness. He was a man with nothing to conceal. 

''Yes, sir !" I heard him declare, "every time you get 
on to a railroad train you take your life in your hands. 
That 's a positive fact. I was reading it up just the 
other day. We had almost sixteen thousand accidents 
to trains in this country last year. A hundred and 
thirty-nine passengers killed and between nine and ten 
thousand injured. That 's not counting employees, 
either — just passengers like us." He emphasized his 
statements by waving a fat forefinger beneath the lis- 
tener's nose, and I noticed that the latter seemed to wish 
to draw his head back out of range, as though in mo- 
mentary fear of a collision. 

For my part, I did not care for these statistics. 
They were not pleasant to the ears of one on the first 
leg of a long railroad journey. I rose, aimed the end 
of my cigar at the convenient nickel-plated receptacle 
provided for that purpose by the thoughtful Pullman 
Company, missed it, and retired from the smoking room. 
Or, rather, I emerged and went to luncheon. 

Our charming neighbor of the parlor car was already 
in the diner. She finished luncheon before we did, and, 
passing by our table as she left, held her chin well up 
and kept her eyes ahead with a precision almost mili- 
tary — almost, but not quite. Try as she would, she was 

14 



STEPPING WESTWARD 

unable to control a slight but infinitely gratifying flicker 
of the eyelids, in which nature triumphed over training 
and femininity defeated feministic theory. 

A little later, on our way back to the smoking room, 
Ave saw her seated, as before, behind the sheltering ram- 
parts of her magazine. This time it pleased our fancy 
to take the austere military cue from her. So we filed 
by in step, as stifif as any guardsmen on parade before 
a princess seated on a green plush throne. Resolutely 
she kept her eyes upon the page. We might have 
thought she had not noticed us at all but for a single 
sign. She uncrossed her knees as we passed by. 

In the smoking room we entered conversation with 
a young man who was sitting by the window. He 
proved to be a civil engineer from Bufifalo. He had 
lived in Bufifalo eight years, he said, without having 
visited Niagara Falls. ('T 've been meaning to go, but 
I Ve kept putting it ofif.") But in New York he had 
taken time to go to Bedloe Island and ascend the Statue 
of Liberty. ('Tt's awfully hot in there.") Though 
my companion and myself had lived in New York for 
many years, neither of us had been to Bedloe Island. 
But both of us had visited the Falls. The absurd hu- 
manness of this was amusing to us all ; to my companion 
and me it was encouraging as well, for it seemed to give 
us ground for hope that, in our visits to strange places, 
we might see things which the people living in those 
places fail to see. 

When, after finishing our smoke, we went back to 

15 



ABROAD AT HOME 

our seats, the being across the way began to make be- 
lieve to read again. But now and then, when some one 
passed, she would look up and make believe she wished 
to see who it might be. And always, after doing so, 
she let her eyes trail casually in our direction ere they 
sought the page again. And always we were thankful. 

As the train slowed down for Rochester we saw her 
rise and get into her slinky little coat. The porter 
came and took her Russia leather bag. Meanwhile we 
hoped she would be generous enough to look once more 
before she left the car. Only once more ! 

But she would not. I think she had a feeling that 
frivolity should cease at Rochester; for Rochester, we 
somehow sensed, was home to her. At all events she 
simply turned and undulated from the car. 

That was too much ! Enough of make-believe ! With 
one accord we swung our chairs to face the window. 
As she appeared upon the platform our noses almost 
touched the windowpane and our eyes sent forth for- 
lorn appeals. She knew that we were there, yet she 
walked by without so much as glancing at us. 

We saw a lean old man trot up to her, throw one arm 
about her shoulders, and kiss her warmly on the cheek. 
Her father — there was no mistaking that. They stood 
there for a moment on the platform talking eagerly; 
and as they talked they turned a little bit, so that we saw 
her smiling up at him. 

Then, to our infinite delight, we noticed that her eyes 
were slipping, slipping. First they slipped down to her 

i6 




r^J/-f.{srt.AM ■ 



w-r«;'ss-ri^^rtr.s^.^'-----^--- 



throug 



STEPPING WESTWARD 

father's necktie. Then sidewise to his shoulder, where 
they fluttered for an instant, while she tried to get them 
under control. But they were n't the kind of eyes which 
are amenable. They got away from her and, with a 
sudden leap, flashed up at us across her father's shoul- 
der! The minx! She even flung a smile! It was 
just a little smile — not one of her best — merely the frag- 
ment of a smile, not good enough for father, but too 
good to throw away. 

Well — it was not thrown away. For it told us that 
she knew our lives had been made brighter by her pres- 
ence — and that she did n't mind a bit. 



Pushing on toward Buffalo as night was falling, 
my companion and I discussed the fellow travelers 
who had most engaged our notice: the young en- 
gineer from Buffalo, keen and alive, with a quick eye 
for the funny side of things; the hairless amorist; the 
genial bore, whose wife (we told ourselves) got very 
tired of him sometimes, but loved him just because he 
was so good ; the pretty girl, who could n't make her eyes 
behave because she was a pretty girl. We guessed what 
kind of house each one resided in, the kind of furniture 
they had, the kind of pictures on the walls, the kind of 
books they read — or did n't read. And I believed that 
we guessed right. Did we not even know what sort of 
underwear encased the ample figure of the man with the 
amazing memory of unessential things? And, while 

17 



ABROAD AT HOME 

touching on this somewhat delicate subject, were we not 
aware that if the alluring being who left the train, and 
us, at Rochester possessed the once-so-necessary gar- 
ment called a petticoat, that petticoat was hanging in 
her closet? 

All this I mention because the thought occurred to 
me then (and it has kept recurring since) that places, 
no less than persons, have characters and traits and 
habits of their own. Just as there are colorless people 
there are colorless communities. There are communi- 
ties which are strong, self-confident, aggressive; others 
lazy and inert. There are cities which are cultivated; 
others which crave "culture" but take ''culturine" (like 
some one drinking from the wrong bottle) ; and still 
others almost unaware, as yet, that esthetic things ex- 
ist. Some cities seem to fairly smile at you; others are 
glum and worried like men who are ill, or oppressed with 
business troubles. And there are dowdy cities and 
fashionable cities — the latter resembling one another as 
fashionable women do. Some cities seem to have an 
active sense of duty, others not. And almost all 
cities, like almost all people, appear to be capable alike 
of baseness and nobility. Some cities are rich and 
proud like self-made millionaires ; others, by comparison, 
are poor. But let me digress here to say that, though 
I have heard mention of "hard times" at certain points 
along my way, I don't believe our modern generation 
knows what hard times really are. To most Americans 
the term appears to signify that life is hard indeed on 

i8 



STEPPING WESTWARD 

him who has no motor car or who goes without cham- 
pagne at dinner. 

My contacts with many places and persons I shall 
mention in the following chapters have, of necessity, 
been brief. I have hardly more than glimpsed them as 
I glimpsed those fellow travelers on the train. There- 
fore I shall merely try to give you some impressions, 
from a sort of mental sketchbook, of the things which 
I have seen and done and heard. There is one point 
in particular about that sketchbook : in it I have reserved 
the right to set down only what I pleased. It has been 
hard to do that sometimes. People have pulled me this 
way and that, telling me what to see and what not to 
see, what to write and what to leave out. I have been 
urged, for instance, to write about the varied industries 
of Cleveland, the parks of Milwaukee, and the enormous 
red apples of Louisiana, Mo. I may come to the apples 
later on, for I ate a number of them and enjoyed them ; 
but the varied industries of Cleveland and the Mil- 
waukee parks I did not eat. 

I claim the further right to ignore, when I desire to, 
the most important things, or to dwell with loving pen 
upon the unimportant. Indeed, I reserve all rights — 
even to the right to be perverse. 

Thus I shall mention things which people told me not 
to mention: the droll Detroit Art Museum; the comic 
chimney rising from the center of a Grand Rapids park ; 
horrendous scenes in the Chicago stockyards; the Free 

19 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Bridge, standing useless over the river at St. Louis for 
want of an approach; the ''wettest block" — a block full 
of saloons, which marks the dead line between "wet" 
Kansas City, Mo., and "dry" Kansas City, Kas. (I 
never heard about that block until a stranger wrote and 
told me not to mention it.) 

As for statistics, though I have been loaded with them 
to the point of purchasing another trunk, I intend to 
use them as sparingly as possible. And every time I use 
them I shall groan. 



20 



CHAPTER II 
BIFURCATED BUFFALO 

ALIGHTING from the train at Buffalo, I was re- 
minded of my earlier reflection that railway sta- 
tions should express their cities. In Buffalo 
the thought is painful. If that city were in fact, ex- 
pressed by its present railway stations, people would 
not get off there voluntarily ; they would have to be put 
off. And yet, from what I have been told, the curious 
and particularly ugly relic which is the New York Cen- 
tral Station there, to-day, does tell a certain story of the 
city. Buffalo has long been torn by factional 
quarrels — among them a protracted fight as to the loca- 
tion of a modern station for the New York Central 
Lines. The East Side wants it ; the West Side wants it. 
Neither has it. The old station still stands — at least it 
was standing when I left Buffalo, for I was very careful 
not to bump it with my suit case. 

This difference of opinion between the East Side and 
the West with regard to the placing of a station is, I am 
informed, quite typical of Buffalo. Socially, com- 
mercially, religiously, politically, the two sides disagree. 
The dividing line between them, geographically, is not, 
as might be supposed, Division Street. (That, by the 

21 



ABROAD AT HOME 

way, is a peculiarity of highways called ''Division 
Street" in most cities — they seldom divide anything 
more important than one row of buildings from an- 
other.) The real street of division is called Main. 

Main Street! How many American towns and 
cities have used that name, and what a stupid name it 
is! It is as characterless as a number, and it lacks the 
number's one excuse for being. If names like Tenth 
Street or Eleventh Avenue fail to kindle the imagina- 
tion they do not fail, at all events, to help the stranger 
find his way — although it should be added that 
strangers do, somehow, manage to find their way about 
in London, Paris, and even Boston, where the modern 
American system of numbering streets and avenues is 
not in vogue. But I am not agitating against the num- 
bering of streets. Indeed, I fear I rather believe in it, 
as I believe in certain other dull but useful things like 
work and government reports. \\'hat I am crying out 
about is the stupid naming of such streets as carry 
names. Why do we have so many Main Streets? Do 
you think we lack imagination ? Then look at the names 
of Western towns and Kansas girls and Pullman cars! 
The thing is an enigma. 

Main Street is not only a bad name for a thorough- 
fare; the quality which it implies is unfortunate. And 
that quality may be seen in Main Street, Buffalo. On 
an exaggerated scale that street is like the Main Street 
of a little town, for the business district, the retail shop- 
ping district, all the city's activities string along on 

22 




We made l)t.liL\c we wanted to go out and smoke. And as we left 
our seats she made believe she did n't know that we were going 



BIFURCATED BUFFALO 

either side. It is bad for a city to grow in that elon- 
gated way just as it is bad for a human being. To 
either it imparts a kind of gawky awkwardness. 

The development of Main Street, Buffalo, has been 
natural. That is just the trouble ; it has been too natural. 
Originally it was the Iroquois trail; later the route fol- 
lowed by the stages coming from the East. So it has 
grown up from log-cabin days. It is a fine, broad street ; 
all that it lacks is "features." It runs along its wide, 
monotonous way until it stops in the squalid surround- 
ings of the river; and if the river did not happen to 
be there to stop it, it would go on and on developing, 
indefinitely, and uninterestingly, in that direction as 
well as in the other. 

The thing which Buffalo lacks physically is a recog- 
nizable center; a point at which a stranger would stop, 
as he stops in Piccadilly Circus or the Place de I'Opera, 
and say to himself with absolute assurance: "Now I 
am at the very heart of the city." Every city ought to 
have a center, and every center ought to signify in its 
spaciousness, its arrangement and its architecture, a 
city's dignity. Buffalo is, unfortunately, far from be- 
ing alone in her need of such a thing. Where Buffalo 
is most at fault is that she does not even seem to be 
thinking of municipal distinction. And very many 
other cities are. Cleveland is already attaining it in a 
manner which will be magnificent; Chicago has long 
planned and is slowly executing; Denver has work upon 
a splendid municipal center well under way ; so has San 

23 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Francisco; St. Louis, Milwaukee, and Grand Rapids 
have plans for excellent municipal improvements. 
Even St. Paul is waking up and widening an important 
business street. 

Every one knows that what is called "a wave of 
reform" has swept across the country, but not every 
one seems to know that there is also surging over 
the United States a "wave" of improved public 
taste. I shall write more of this later. Suffice it now 
to say that it manifests itself in countless forms : in 
municipal improvements of the kind of which the Cleve- 
land center is, perhaps, the best example in the country ; 
in architecture of all classes ; in household furniture and 
decoration; in the tendency of art museums to realize 
that modern American paintings are the fmest modern 
paintings obtainable in the world to-day ; in the tendency 
of private art collectors not to buy quite so much rubbish 
as they have bought in the past; in the Panama-Pacific 
Exposition, which will be the most beautiful exposition 
anybody ever saw ; and in innumerable other ways. In- 
deed, public taste in the United States has, in the last 
ten years, taken a leap forward which the mind of to-day 
cannot hope to measure. The advance is nothing less 
than marvelous, and it is reflected, I think, in every 
branch of art excepting one : the literary art, which has 
in our day, and in our country, reached an abysmal 
depth of degradation. 

With Cleveland so near at hand as an example, and 

24 



BIFURCATED BUFFALO 

so many other American cities thinking about civic 
beauty, Buffalo ought soon to begin to rub her eyes, look 
about, and cast up her accounts. Perhaps her trouble 
is that she is a little bit too prosperous with an olden-time 
prosperity; a little bit too somnolent and satisfied. 
There is plenty to eat ; business is not so bad ; there are 
good clubs, and there is a delightful social life and a 
more than ordinary degree of cultivation. Further- 
more, there may be a new station for the New York 
Central some day, for it is a fact that there are now 
some street cars which actually cross Main Street, in- 
stead of stopping at the Rubicon and making passengers 
get out, cross on foot, and take the other car on the 
other side ! That, in itself, is a startling state of things. 
Evidently all that is, needed now is an earthquake. 

I have remarked before that cities, like people, 
have habits. Just as Detroit has the automobile 
habit, Pittsburgh the steel habit, Erie, Pa., the boiler 
habit. Grand Rapids the furniture habit, and Louis- 
ville the (if one may say so) whisky habit, Buffalo 
had in earlier times the transportation habit. The 
first fortunes made in Buft'alo came originally from the 
old Central Wharf, where toll was taken of the pass- 
ing commerce. Hand in hand with shipping came that 
business known by the unpleasant name of "jobbing." 
From the opening of the Erie Canal until the late seven- 
ties, jobbing flourished in Buffalo, but of recent years 

25 



ABROAD AT HOME 

her jobbing territory has diminished as competition 
with surrounding centers has increased. 

The early profits from docks and shipping were con- 
siderable. The business was easy; it involved com- 
paratively small investment and but little risk. So when, 
with the introduction of through bills of lading, this 
business dwindled, it was hard for Buffalo to readjust 
herself to more daring ventures, such as manufactur- 
ing. "For," as a Buffalo man remarked to me, "there 
is only one thing more timid than a million dollars, and 
that is two million." It was the same gentleman, I 
think, who, in comparing the Buffalo of to-day with the 
Buffalo of other days, called my attention to the fact 
that not one man in the city is a director of a steam rail- 
road company. 

From her geographical position with regard to ore, 
limestone, and coal it would seem that Buffalo might 
well become a great iron and steel city like Cleveland, 
but for some reason her ventures in this direction have 
been unfortunate. One steel company in which Buffalo 
money was invested, failed ; another has been struggling 
along for some years and has not so far proved profit- 
able. Some Buffalonians made money in a land boom 
a dozen or so years since; then came the panic, and the 
boom burst with a loud report, right in Buffalo's face. 

Back of most of this trouble there seems to have been 
a streak of real ill luck. 

There is a great deal of money in Buffalo, but it is 
wary money — financial wariness seems to be another 

26 



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«--'''«'**^%>v 




■■ '«&st^! ^jii«iiasnwijW' 



The gentleman who favored linen mesh was a fat, prosperous-looking person, 
whose gold-rimmed spectacles reflected flying lights from out of doors 



BIFURCATED BUFFALO 

Buffalo habit. And there are other cities with the same 
characteristic. You can tell them because, when you 
begin to ask about various enterprises, people will say: 
"No, we have n't this and we have n't that, but this is 
a safe town in times of financial panic." That is what 
they say in Buffalo; they also say it in St. Louis and St. 
Paul. But if they say it in Chicago, or Minneapolis, or 
Kansas City, or in those lively cities of the Pacific slope, 
I did not hear them. Those cities are not worrying 
about financial panics which may come some day, but 
are busy with the things which are. 

If you ask a Buffalo man what is the matter with his 
city, he will, very likely, sit down with great solemnity 
and try to tell you, and even call a friend to help him, so 
as to be sure that nothing is overlooked. He may tell 
you that the city lacks one great big dominating man to 
lead it into action ; or that there has been, until recently, 
lack of cooperation between the banks ; or that there are 
ninety or a hundred thousand Poles in the city and only 
about the same number of people springing from what 
may be called "old American stock." Or he may tell 
you something else. 

If, upon the other hand, you ask a Minneapolis man 
that question, what will he do? He will look at you 
pityingly and think you are demented. Then he will 
tell you very positively that there is nothing the matter 
with Minneapolis, but that there is something definitely 
the matter with any one who thinks there is ! Yes, in- 

27 



ABROAD AT HOME 

deed! If you want to find out what is the matter with 
MinneapoHs, it is still necessary to go for information to 
St. Paul. As you proceed westward, such a question 
becomes increasingly dangerous. 

Ask a Kansas Cit}^ man what is wrong with his town 
and he will probably attack you; and as for Los 
Angeles — ! Such a question in Los Angeles would 
mean the calling out of the National Guard, the Cham- 
ber of Commerce, the Rotary Club, and all the " boost- 
ers" (which is to say the entire population of the city) ; 
the declaring of martial law, a trial by summary court- 
martial, and your immediate execution. The manner 
of your execution would depend upon the phrasing of 
your question. If you had asked: "Is there anything 
wrong with Los Angeles ?'' they 'd probably be content 
with selling you a city lot and then hanging you; but if 
you said: "What is wrong with Los Angeles?" they 
would burn you at the stake and pickle your remains in 
vitriol. 

At this juncture I find myself oppressed with the 
idea that I have n't done Buffalo justice. Also, I 
am annoyed to discover that I have written a great 
deal about business. When I write about business I 
am almost certain to be wrong. I dislike business 
very much — almost as much as I dislike politics — and 
the idea of infringing upon the field of friends of mine 
like Lincoln Stefifens, Ray Stannard Baker, Miss Tar- 
bell, Samuel Hopkins Adams, Will Irwin, and others, 

28 



BIFURCATED BUFFALO 

is extremely distasteful to me. But here is the trouble: 
so many writers have run a-muckraking that, nowa- 
days, when a writer appears in any American city, every 
one assumes that he is scouting around in search of 
"shame." The result is that you don't have to hunt for 
shame. People bring it to you by the cartload. They 
don't give you time to explain that you are n't a shame 
collector — that you don't even know a good piece of 
shame when you see it — they just drive up, dump it at 
your door, and go back to get another load. 

My companion and I were new at the game in Buffalo. 
As the loads of shame began to arrive, we had a feel- 
ing that something was going wrong with our trip. We 
had come in search of cheerful adventure, yet here we 
were barricaded in by great bulwarks of shame. In a 
few hours there was enough shame around us to have 
lasted all the reformers and muckrakers I know a whole 
month. We could n't see over the top of it. It hypno- 
tized us. We began to think that probably shame was 
what we wanted, after all. Every one we met assumed 
it was what we wanted, and when enough people assume 
a certain thing about you it is very difficult to buck 
against them. By the second day we had ceased to be 
human and had begun to act like muckrakers. We be- 
came solemn, silent, mysterious. We would pick up a 
piece of shame, examine it, say ''Hal'' and stick it in 
our pockets. When some white-faced Buffalonian 
would drive up with another load of shame I would go 
up to him, wave my finger under his nose and, trying to 

29 



ABROAD AT HOME 

look as much like Steffens as I could, say in a sepulchral 
voice: "Come! Out with it! What are you holding 
back? Tell me all! Who tore up the missing will?" 
Then that poor, honest, terrified Buffalonian would 
gasp and try to tell me all, between his chattering teeth. 
And when he had told me all I would continue to glare 
at him horribly, and ask for more. Then he would be- 
gin making up stories, inventing the most frightful and 
shocking lies so as not to disappoint me. I would print 
some of them here, but I have forgotten them. That 
is the trouble with the amateur muckraker or re- 
former. His mind is n't trained to his work. He is 
constantly allowing it to be diverted by some pleasant 
thing. 

For instance, some one pointed out to me that the 
water front of the city, along the Niagara River, is so 
taken up by the railroads that the public does not get 
the benefit of that water life which adds so much to 
the charm of Cleveland and Detroit. That situation 
struck me as affording an excellent piece of muck to 
rake. For is n't it always the open season so far as rail- 
roads are concerned? 

I ought to have kept my mind on that, but in 
my childlike way I let myself go ambling off through 
the parks. I found the parks delightful, and in one of 
them I came upon a beautiful Greek temple, built of 
marble and containing a collection of paintings of which 
any city should be proud. Now that is a disconcerting 
sort of thing to find when you have just abandoned your- 

30 



BIFURCATED BUFFALO 

self to the idea of becoming a muckraker ! How can 
you muckrake a gallery like that? It can't be done. 



With the possible exception of the Chicago Art 
Institute my companion and I did not see, upon 
our entire journey, any gallery of art in which such 
good judgment had been shown in the selection of 
paintings as in the Albright Gallery in Buffalo. 
Though the Chicago Art Institute is much the larger and 
richer museum, and though its collection is more com- 
prehensive, its modern art is far more heterogeneous 
than that of Buffalo. One admires that Albright Gal- 
lery not only for the paintings which hang upon its 
walls, but also for those which do not hang there. 
Judgment has been shown not only in selecting paint- 
ings but (one concludes) in rejecting gifts. I do not 
know that the Albright Gallery has rejected gifts, but 
I do know that the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New 
York and the Chicago Art Institute have, at times, failed 
to reject gifts which should have been rejected. Almost 
all museums fail in that respect in their early days. When 
a rich man offers a bad painting, or a roomful of bad 
paintings, the museum is afraid to say "No," because 
rich men must be propitiated. That has been the curse 
of art museums; they have to depend on rich men for 
support. And rich men, however generous they may be, 
and however much they may be interested in art, are, 
for the most part, lacking in any true and deep under- 

31 



ABROAD AT HOME 

standing of it. That is one trouble with being rich — 
it does n't give you time to be much of anything else. 
If rich men really did knozv art, there would not be so 
many art dealers, and so many art dealers would not 
be going to expensive tailors and riding in expensive 
limousines. 

Those who control the Albright Gallery have been 
wise enough to specialize in modern American painting. 
They have not been impressed, as so many Americans 
still are impressed, by the sound of the word ''Europe." 
Nor have they attempted to secure old masters. 

Does it not seem a mistake for any museum not pos- 
sessed of enormous wealth to attempt a collection of old 
masters? A really fine example of the work of an old 
master ties up a vast amount of money, and, however 
splendid it may be, it is only one canvas, after all; and 
one or two or three old masters do not make a repre- 
sentative collection. Rather, it seems to me, they tend 
to disturb balance in a small museum. 

To many American ears "Europe" is still a magic 
word. It makes little difference that Europe remains 
the happy hunting ground of the advanced social 
climber; but it makes a good deal of difference that so 
many American students of the arts continue to believe 
that there is some mystic thing to be gotten over there 
which is unobtainable at home. Europe has done much 
for us and can still do much for us, but we must learn 
not to accept blindly as we have in the past. Until quite 
recently, American art museums did, for the most part, 

32 



O 3^ 



cr2 



.^¥ 




p .^-;^v^»-H^ 






BIFURCATED BUFFALO 

buy European art which was in many instances abso- 
lutely inferior to the art produced at home. And imless 
I am very much mistaken a third-rate portrait painter, 
with a European name (and a clever dealer to push 
him) can still come over here and reap a harvest of 
thousands while Americans with more ability are mak- 
ing hundreds. 

One of the brightest signs for American painting to- 
day is the fact that it is now found profitable to make and 
sell forgeries of the works of our most distinguished 
modern artists — even living ones. This is a new and 
encouraging situation. A few years ago it was hardly 
worth a forger's time to make, say, a false Hassam, 
when he might just as well be making a Corot — which 
reminds me of an amusing thing a painter said to me 
the other day. 

We were passing through an art gallery, when I hap- 
pened to see at the end of one room three canvases in 
the familiar manner of Corot. 

"What a lot of Corots there are in this country," I 
remarked. 

"Yes," he replied. "Of the ten thousand canvases 
painted by Corot, there are thirty thousand in the United 
States." 

There are two interesting hotels in Buffalo. One, 
the Iroquois, Is characterized by a kind of solid dignity 
and has for years enjoyed a high reputation. It 
is patronized to-day at luncheon time by many of 

33 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Buffalo's leading business men. Another, the Statler, is 
more "commercial" in character. My companion and 
I happened to stop at the latter, and we became very 
much interested in certain things about it. For one 
thing, every room in the hotel has running ice water and 
a bath — either a tub or a shower. Everywhere in 
that hotel we saw signs. At the desk, when we entered, 
hung a sign which read: Clerk on duty, Mr. Pratt. 

There were signs in our bedrooms, too. I don't re- 
member all of them, but there was one bearing the genial 
invitation: Crifici.'^c and suggest for the iniproimient 
of our service. Complaint and suggestion box in 
lobby. 

While I was in that hotel I had nothing to ''criticize 
and suggest," but I have been in other hotels where, if 
such an invitation had been extended to me, I should 
have stuffed the box. 

Besides the signs, we found in each of our rooms the 
following: a clothes brush; a card bearing on one side 
a calendar and on the other side a list of all trains leav- 
ing Buffalo, and their times of departure; a memoran- 
dum pad and pencil by the telephone; a Bible ("Placed 
in this hotel by the Gideons"), and a pincushion, con- 
taining not only a variety of pins (including a large 
safety pin), but also needles threaded with black thread 
and white, and buttons of different kinds, even to a sus- 
pender button. 

But aside from the prompt service we received, I 
think the thing which pleased us most about that hotel 

34 







My companion and I made excuses to go downstairs and wash 
our "hands in the public washroom, just for the pleasure of doing 
so without fear of being attacked by a swarthy brigand with 
a brush 



BIFURCATED BUFFALO 

was a large sign in the public wash room, downstairs. 
Had I come from the West I am not sure that sign 
w^ould have startled me so much, but coming from New 
York — ! Well, this is what it said: 

Believing that voluntary service in washrooms is dis- 
tasteful to guests, attendants are instructed to give no 
service zvhich the guest does not ask for. 

Time and again, while we were in Buffalo, my com- 
panion and I made excuses to go downstairs and wash 
our hands in the public washroom, just for the pleasure 
of doing so without fear of being attacked by a swarthy 
l)rigand with a brush. We became positively fond of 
the melancholy washroom boy in that hotel. There 
was something pathetic in the way he stood around wait- 
ing for some one to say: ''Brush me!" Day after 
day he pursued his policy of watchful waiting, hoping 
against hope that something would happen — that some 
one would fall down in the mud and really need to 
be brushed; that some one would take pity on him 
and let himself be brushed anyhow. The pathos of 
that boy's predicament began to affect us deeply. 
Finally we decided, just before leaving Buffalo, to go 
downstairs and let him brush us. We did so. When 
we asked him to do it he went very white at first. 
Then, with a glad cry, he leaped at us and did his 
work. It was a real brushing we got that day — not 
a mere slap on the back with a whisk broom, mean- 
ing "Stand and deliver!" but the kind of brushing 

35 



ABROAD AT HOME 

that takes the dust out of your clothes. The wash room 
was full of dust before he got through. Great clouds 
of it went floating up the stairs, filling the hotel lobby 
and making everybody sneeze. When he finished we 
were renovated. "How much do you think we ought to 
give him for all this ?" I asked of my companion. 

*Tf the conventional dime which we give the wash- 
room boys in New York hotels," he replied, ''is proper 
payment for the services they render, I should say we 
ought to give this boy about twenty-seven dollars." 



There are many other things about Buffalo which 
should be mentioned. There is the Buffalo Club — the 
dignified, solid old club of the city; and there is the 
Saturn Club, "where women cease from troubling and 
the wicked are at rest." And there is Delaware Ave- 
nue, on which stand both these clubs, and many of the 
city's finest homes. 

Unlike certain famous old residence streets in other 
cities, Delaware Avenue still holds out against the en- 
croachments of trade. It is a wide, fine street of trees 
and lawns and residences. Despite the fact that many 
of its older houses are of the ugly though substantial 
architecture of the sixties, seventies, and eighties, and 
many of its newer ones lack architectural distinction, 
the general effect of Delaware Avenue is still fine and 
American. 

My impression of this celebrated street was neces- 

36 



BIFURCATED BUFFALO 

sarily hurried, having been acquired in the course oi 
sundry dashes down its length in motor cars. I recall 
a number of its buildings only vaguely now, but there 
is one which I admired every time I saw it, and which 
still clings in my memory both as a building and as a 
sermon on the enduring beauty of simplicity and good, 
old-fashioned lines — the office of Spencer Kellogg & 
Sons, at the corner of Niagara Square. 



It happened that just before we left New York there 
was a newspaper talk about some rich women who 
had organized a movement of protest against the ever- 
increasing American tendency toward show and ex- 
travagance. We were, therefore, doubly interested 
when we heard of a similar activity on the part of cer- 
tain fashionable women of Buffalo. 

Our hostess at a dinner party there was the first to 
mention it, but several other ladies added details. They 
had formed a few days before a society called the "Sim- 
plicity League," the members of which bound them- 
selves to give each other moral support in their eft'orts 
to return to a more primitive mode of life. I cannot re- 
call now whether the topic came up before or after the 
butler and the footman came around with caviar and 
cocktails, but I know that I had learned a lot about it 
from charming and enthusiastic ladies at either side of 
me before the sherry had come on ; that, by the time the 
sauterne was served, I was deeply impressed, and that, 

Z7 



ABROAD AT HOME 

with the roast and the Burgundy, I was prepared to take 
the field against all comers, not only in favor of sim- 
plicity, but in favor of anything and everything which 
was favored by my hostess. Throughout the salad, the 
ices, the Turkish coffee, and the Corona-coronas I re- 
mained her champion, while with the port — ah ! nothing, 
it seems to me, recommends the old order of things quite 
so thoroughly as old port, which has in it a sermon and 
a song. After dinner the ladies told us more about 
their league. 

"We don't intend to go to any foolish extremes," said 
one who looked like the apotheosis of the Rue de la 
Paix. "We are only going to scale things down and 
eliminate waste. There is a lot of useless show in this 
country which only makes it hard for people who can't 
afford things. And even for those who can, it is wrong. 
Take the matter of dress — a dress can be simple without 
looking cheap. And it is the same with a dinner. A 
dinner can be delicious without being elaborate. Take 
this little dinner we had to-night — " 

"What?" I cried. 

"Yes," she nodded. "In future we are all going to 
give plain little dinners like this." 

"Plainr I gasped. 

Our hostess overheard my choking cry. 

"Yes," she put in. "You see, the league is going to 
practise what it preaches." 

"But I did n't think it had begun yet ! I thought this 
dinner was a kind of farewell feast — that it was — " 

38 




^-^0^^\)^^ — 



I was prepared to take the field against all comers, not only in favor of 
simplicity, but in favor of anything and everything which was favored by 
my hostess 



BIFURCATED BUFFALO 

Our hostess looked grieved. The other ladies of the 
league gazed at me reproachfully. 

"Why!" I heard one exclaim to another, *T don't be- 
lieve he noticed !" 

"Did n't you notice?" asked my hostess. 

I was cornered. 

"Notice?" I asked. "Notice zvhatr 

"That we did n't have champagne !" she said. 



39 



CHAPTER III 
CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS 

BEFORE leaving home we were presented with a 
variety of gifts, ranging all the way from ear 
muffs to advice. Having some regard for the 
esthetic, we threw away the ear muffs, determining to 
buy ourselves fur caps when we should need them. 
'But the advice we could not Throw away; it' stuck to us 
like a poor relation. 

In the parlor car, on the way from Buffalo to Cleve- 
land, our minds got running on sad subjects. 

"We have come out to find interesting things — to have 
adventures," said my blithe companion. "Now sup- 
posing we go on and on and nothing happens. What 
will we do then? The publishers will have spent all this 
money for our traveling, and what will they get?" 

I told him that, in such an event, we would make up 
adventures. 

"What, for instance?" he demanded. 

I thought for a time. Then I said: 

"Here 's a good scheme — we could begin now, right 
here in this car. You act like a crazy man. I will be 
your keeper. You run up and down the aisle shout- 
ing — talk wildly to these people — stamp on your hat — 

40 



CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS 

do anything you like. It will interest the passengers 
and give us something nice to write about. And you 
could make a picture of yourself, too." 

Instead of appreciating that suggestion he was an- 
noyed with me, so I ventured something else. 

"How would it be for you to beat a policeman on 
the helmet?" 

He did n't care for that either. 

"Why don't you think of something for yourself to 
do?" he said, somewhat sourly. 

"All right," I returned. "I 'm willing to do my share. 
I will poison you and get arrested for it." 

"If you do that," he criticized, "who will make the 
pictures?" 

I saw that he was in a humor to find fault with any- 
thing I proposed, so I let him ramble on. He had a 
regular orgy of imaginary disaster, running all the way 
from train wrecks, in which I was killed and he was 
saved only to have the bother and expense of shipping 
my remains home, to fires in which my notebooks were 
burned up, leaving on his hands a lot of superb but use- 
less drawings. 

After a time he suggested that we make up a list of 
the things we had been warned of. I did not wish to 
do it, but, acting on the theory that fever must run its 
course, I agreed, so we took paper and pencil and began. 
It required about two hours to get everything down, be- 
ginning with Aches, Actresses, Adenoids, Alcoholism, 
Amnesia, Arson, etc., and running on, through the 

41 



ABROAD AT HOME 

alphabet to Zero weather, Zolaism, and Zymosis. 

After looking over the category, my companion said : 

'The trouble with this list is that it does n't present 
things in the order in which they may reasonably be ex- 
pected to occur. For instance, you might get zymosis, 
or attempt to write like Zola, at almost any time, yet 
those two dangers are down at the bottom o£ the list. 
On the other hand, things like actresses, alcoholism, and 
arson seem remote. We must rearrange." 

I thought it wise to give in to him, so we set to work 
again. This time we made two lists: one of general 
dangers — things which might overtake us almost any- 
where, such as scarlet fever, hardening of the arteries, 
softening of the brain, and "road shows" from the New 
York Winter Garden ; another arranged geographically, 
according to our route. Thus, for example, instead of 
listing Elbert Hubbard under the letter ''H," we ele- 
vated him to first place, because he lives near Buffalo, 
which was our first stop. 

I did n't want to put down Hubbard's name at all — I 
thought it would please him too much if he ever heard 
about it. I said to my companion : 

''We have already passed Buffalo. And, besides, 
there are some things which the instinct of self-preser- 
vation causes one to recollect without the aid of any 
list." 

"I know it," he returned, stubbornly, "but, in the in- 
terest of science, I wish this list to be complete." 

So we put down everything: Elbert Hubbard, 

42 




r^% 


ii 


1 '' j^ 


|E^|<ifi^^^H 




^.^' 


i-/> ■ 



Chamber of Commerce representatives were with us 
all the first day and until we went to our rooms, late 
at night 



CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS 

Herbert Kaufman, Eva Tanguay, Upton Sinclair, and 
all. 

A few selected items from our geographical list may 
interest the reader as giving him some idea of the loca- 
tions of certain things we had to fear. For example, 
west of Chicago we listed Oysters, and north of Chi- 
cago Fro:;en Ears and Frozen Noses — the latter two 
representing the dangers of the Minnesota winter. So 
our list ran on until it reached the point where we would 
cross the Great Divide, at which place the word "Boost- 
ers" was writ large. 

I recall now that, according to our geographical ar- 
rangement, there was n't much to be afraid of until we 
got beyond Chicago, and that the first thing we looked 
forward to with real dread was the cold in Minnesota. 
We dreaded it more than arson, because if some one sets 
fire to your ear or your nose, you know it right away, 
and can send in an alarm ; but cold is sneaky. It seems, 
from what they say, that you can go along the street, 
feeling perfectly well, and with no idea that anything is 
going wrong with you, until some experienced resident 
of the place touches you upon the arm and says: ''Ex- 
cuse me, sir, but you have dropped something." Then 
you look around, surprised, and there is your ear, lying 
on the sidewalk. But that is not the worst of it. Be- 
fore you can thank the man, or pick your ear up and dust 
it off, some one will very likely come along and step on it. 
I do not think they do it purposely ; they are simply care- 
less about where they walk. But whether it happens by 

43 



ABROAD AT HOME 

accident or design, whether the ear is spoiled or not, 
whether or not you be wearing your ear at the time of 
the occurrence — in any case there is something exceed- 
ingly offensive, to the average man, in the idea of a total 
stranger's walking on his ear. 

I mention this to point a moral. However prepared 
we may be, in life, we are always unprepared. How- 
ever informed we may be, we are always uninformed. 
We gaze up at the sky, dreading to-morrow's rain, and 
slip upon to-day's banana peel. We move toward Cleve- 
land dreading the Minnesota winter which is yet far off, 
having no thought of the "booster," whom we believe 
to be still farther off. And what happens? We step 
from the train, all innocent and trusting, and then, ah, 
then ! 

If it be true, indeed, that the "Ijooster" flour- 
ishes more furiously the farther west you find him, let 
me say (and I say it after having visited California, 
Oregon, and Washington) that Cleveland must be newly 
located upon the map. For, if ''boosting" be a western 
industry, Cleveland is not an Ohio city, nor even a 
Pacific Slope city, but is an island out in the midst of the 
Pacific Ocean. 

Nor is this a mere opinion of my own. Upon the mas- 
todonic brow of the Cleveland Chamber of Commerce 
there hangs an official laurel wreath. The New York 
Bureau of Municipal Research invited votes from the 
secretaries of Chambers of Commerce and similar or- 

44 



CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS 

ganizations in thirty leading cities, as to which of these 
bodies had accompHshed most for its city, industrially, 
commercially, etc. Cleveland won. 

No one who has caromed against the Cleveland Cham- 
ber of Commerce will wonder that Cleveland won. All 
other Chambers of Commerce I have met, sink into 
desuetude and insignificance when compared with that 
of Cleveland. Where others merely "boost," Cleveland 
"boosts" intensively. She can raise more bushels of 
statistics to the acre than other cities can quarts. And 
the more Cleveland statistics you hear, the more you 
become amazed that you do not live there. It seems 
reckless not to do so. The Cleveland Chamber of Com- 
merce can prove this to you not merely with figures, 
but also wnth figures of speech. 

Take the matter of population. Everybody knows 
that Cleveland is the "Sixth City" in the United States, 
but not everybody knows that in 1850 she was forty- 
third. The Chamber of Commerce told me that, but I 
have prepared some figures of my own which will, per- 
haps, give the reader some idea of Cleveland's magni- 
tude. Cleveland is only a little smaller than Prague, 
while she has about 50,000 more people than Breslau. 

If that does not impress you with the city's size, listen 
to this : Cleveland is actually twice as great, in popula- 
tion, as either Nagoya or Riga! Who would have be- 
lieved it? The thing seems incredible! I never 
dreamed that such a situation existed until I looked it 
up in the "World Almanac." And some day, when I 

45 



ABROAD AT HOME 

have more time, I intend to look up Nagoya and Riga in 
the atlas and find out where they are. 

A Chamber of Commerce booklet gives me the fur- 
ther information that "Cleveland is the fifth American 
city in manufactures, and that she comes first in the 
manufacture of steel ships, heavy machinery, wire and 
wire nails, bolts and nuts, vapor stoves, electric carbons, 
malleable castings, and telescopes" — a list which, by the 
way, sounds like one of Lewis Carroll's compilations. 

The information that Cleveland is also the first city 
in the world in its record, per capita, for divorce, does 
not come to me from the Chamber of Commerce book- 
let — but probably the fact was not known when the book- 
let was printed. 

Besides being first in so many interesting fields, Cleve- 
land is the second of the Great Lake cities, and is also 
second in "the value of its product of women's outer 
wearing apparel and fancy knit goods." 

It is, furthermore, "the cheapest market in the North 
for pig iron." 

There are other figures I could give (saving myself a 
lot of trouble, at the same time, because I only have to 
copy them from a book), but I want to stop and let that 
pig-iron statement sink into you as it sank into me when 
I first read it. I wonder if you knew it before? I am 
ashamed to admit it, but / did not. I did n't consider 
w^here I could get my pig iron the cheapest. When I 
wanted pig iron I simply went out and bought it, at 
the nearest place, right in New York. That is, I 

46 




It is an Elizabethan building, with a heavy timbered 
front, suggesting some ancient, hospitable, London coffee 
house where wits of old were used to meet 



CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS 

bought It in New York unless I happened to be traveling 
when the craving came upon me. In that case I would 
buy a small supply wherever I happened to be — just 
enough to last me until I could get home again. I don't 
know how pig iron affects you, but with me it acts pe- 
culiarly. Sometimes I go along for weeks without even 
thinking of it; then, suddenly, I feel that I must have 
some at once — even if it is the middle of the night. Of 
course a man does n't care what he pays for his pig iron 
when he feels like that. But in my soberer moments I 
now realize that it is best to be economical in such mat- 
ters. The wisest plan is to order enough pig iron from 
Cleveland to keep you for several months, being careful 
to notice when the supply is running low, so that you 
can order another case. ^u ^r 

Apropos of this let me say here, in response to many 
inquiries as to what the nature of this work of mine 
would be, that I intend it to be ''useful as well as orna- 
mental" — to quote the happy phrase, coined by James 
Montgomery Flagg. That is, I intend not only to en- 
tertain and instruct the reader but, where opportunity 
offers, to give him the benefit of good sound advice, 
such as I have just given with regard to the purchasing 
of pig iron. 



47 



CHAPTER IV 
MORE CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS 

BECAUSE I have told you so much about the 
Chamber of Commerce you must not assume 
that the Chamber of Commerce was with us 
constantly while we were in Cleveland, for that 
is not the case. True, Chamber of Commerce rep- 
resentatives were with us all the first day and until 
we went to our rooms, late at night. But at 
our rooms they left us, merely taking the precau- 
tion to lock us in. No attempt was made to assist 
us in undressing or to hear our prayers or tuck tis 
into bed. Once in our rooms we were left to our 
own devices. We were allowed to read a little, if we 
wished, to whisper together, or even to amuse ourselves 
by playing with the fixtures in the bathroom. 

On the morning of the second day they came and let 
us out, and took us to see a lot of interesting and edify- 
ing sights, but by afternoon they had acquired sufficient 
confidence in us to turn us loose for a couple of hours, 
allowing us to roam about, at large, while they attended 
to their mail. 

We made use of the freedom thus extended to us by 
presenting several letters of introduction to Cleveland 
gentlemen, who took us to various clubs. 

48 



MORE CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS - 

Almost every large city in the country has one solid, 
dignified old club, occupying a solid, dignified old build- 
ing on a corner near the busy part of town. The build- 
ing is always recognizable, even to a stranger. It sug- 
gests a fine cuisine, an excellent wine cellar, and a great 
variety of good cigars in prime condition. In the front 
of such a club there are large windows of plate glass, 
back of which the passer-by may catch a glimpse of a 
trim white mustache and a silk hat. Looking at the 
outside of the building, you know that there is a big, 
high-ceiled room, at the front, dark in color and con- 
taining spacious leather chairs, which should (and often 
do) contain aristocratic gentlemen who have attained 
years of discretion and positions of importance. One 
feels cheated if, on entering, one fails to encounter a 
member carrying a malacca stick and wearing waxed 
mustaches, spats, and a gardenia. The Union Club of 
New York is such a club ; so is the Pacific Union of San 
Francisco ; so is the Chicago Club ; and so, I fancy, from 
my glimpse of it, is the Union Club of Cleveland. 

In the larger cities there is usually another club, some- 
what less formal in architecture, decoration, and spirit, 
and given over, broadly speaking, to the younger men — - 
though there is often a good deal of duplication of mem- 
bership between the first mentioned type of club and the 
second. The Tavern of Cleveland is of the second 
category; so is the Saturn Club of Buffalo, of which I 
spoke in a former chapter. Almost every good-sized 
city has, likewise, its university club, its athletic club, and 

49 



ABROAD AT HOME 

its country club. University clubs vary a good deal in 
character, but athletic clubs and country clubs are in 
general pretty true to type. 

Besides such clubs as these, one finds, here and there, 
in the United States, a few clubs of a character more un- 
usual. Cleveland has three unusual clubs : the Rowf ant, 
a book collector's club; the Chagrin Valley Hunt Club, 
at Gates Mills, near the city, and the Hermit Club. 

Were it not for the fact that I detest the words 
"artistic" and "bohemian," I should apply them to the 
Hermit Club. It is one of the few clubs outside New 
York, Chicago, and San Francisco possessing its own 
house and made up largely of men following the arts, or 
interested in them. Like the Lambs of New York, the 
Hermits give shows in their clubhouse, but the Lambs' 
is a club of actors, authors, composers, stage managers, 
etc., while the Hermit Club is made up, so far as the 
theater is concerned, of amateurs — amateurs having 
among them sufficient talent to write and act their own 
shows, design their own costumes, paint their own scen- 
ery, compose their own music, and even play it, too — 
for there is an orchestra of members. I have never seen 
a Hermits' show, and I am sorry, for I have heard that 
they are worth seeing. Certainly their clubhouse is. 
It is an Elizabethan building, with a heavy timbered 
front, suggesting some ancient, hospitable, London 
cofifee house where wits of old were used to meet. This 
illusion is enhanced by the surroundings of the club, for 
it stands in an alley — or perhaps I had better say a nar- 

50 



MORE CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS 

row lane — and is huddled down between the walls of 
taller buildings. 

The pleasant promise of the exterior is fulfilled within. 
The ground floor rooms are low and cozy, and have a 
pleasant "rambling" feeling — a step or two up here or 
down there. The stairway, leading to the floor above, 
is narrow, with a genial kind of narrowness that seems 
to say: "There is no one here with whom 3^ou '11 mind 
rubbing elbows as you pass." Ascending, you reach the 
main room, which occupies the entire upper floor. This 
room is the Hermit Club. It is here that members 
gather and that the more intimate shows are given. 
Large, with dark panels, and heavy beams which spring- 
up and lose themselves in warm shadows overhead, it is 
a room combining dignity with gracious informality. 
And let me add that, to my mind, such a combination 
is at once rare and desirable in a club building — or, for 
the matter of that, in a home or a human being. A 
club which is too informal is likely to seem trivial; a 
club too dignified, austere. A club should neither seem 
to be a joke, nor yet a mausoleum. If it be magnifi- 
cent, it should not, at least, overwhelm one with its mag- 
nificence; it should not chill one with its grandeur, so 
that one lowers one's voice to a whisper and involun- 
tarily removes one's hat. 

In some clubs a man leaves his hat upon his head or 
takes it off, as he prefers. In others custom demands 
that he remove it. Some men will argue that if you 
give a man his choice in that matter he feels more at 

51 



ABROAD AT HOME 

home; others contend that if he takes his hat off he will, 
at all events, look more at home, whereas, if he leaves it 
on he will look more as though he were in a hotel. These 
are matters of opinion. There are many pleasant clubs 
which differ on this minor point. But I do not think 
that any club may be called pleasant in which a man is 
inclined to take off his hat instinctively because of an air 
of grim formality which he encounters on entering the 
door. To make an Irish bull upon this subject, one of 
the nicest things that I remember of the Hermit Club is 
that I don't remember whether we wore our hats while 
there or not. 

The Chagrin Valley Hunt Club lies in a pleasant val- 
ley which acquired its name through the error of a 
pioneer (General Moses Cleveland himself, if I remem- 
ber rightly) who, when sailing up Lake Erie, landed at 
this point, mistaking it for the site of Cleveland, farther 
on, and was hence chagrined. Here, more than a hun- 
dred years ago, the little village of Gates Mills was set- 
tled by men whose buildings, left behind them, still pro- 
claim their New England origin. H ever I saw a Con- 
necticut village outside the State of Connecticut, that 
village is Gates Mills, Ohio. Low white farmhouses, 
with picturesque doorways and small windows divided 
into many panes, straggle pleasantly along on either side 
of the winding country road, and there is even an old 
meeting house, with a spire such as you may see in many 
a New England hamlet. 

52 



MORE CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS 

The old Gates house, which was built in 1812 by the 
miller from whom the place took its name, is passing a 
mellow old age as the house of the Hunt Club. In this 
charming, homelike old building, with its grandfather's 
clock, its Windsor chairs, and its open wood fires, a 
visitor finds its hard to realize that he is actually in a 
portion of the country which is still referred to, in New 
York, as "the west." 

The Connecticut resemblance is accounted for by the 
fact that all this section of the country was in the West- 
ern Reserve, which belonged to, and was settled by, 
Connecticut. Thus travel teaches us! I knew prac- 
tically nothing, until then, of the Western Reserve, and 
even less of hunt clubs. I had never been in a hunt 
club before, and my impressions of such institutions 
had been gleaned entirely from short stories and from 
prints showing rosy old rascals drinking. Probably 
because of these prints I had always thought that 
"horsey" people — particularly the "hunting set" — were 
generally addicted to the extensive (and not merely 
external) use of alcohol. As others may be of the same 
impression it is perhaps worth remarking that, while 
in the Hunt Club, we saw a number of persons drinking 
tea, and that only two were drinking alcoholic bever- 
ages — those two being visitors: an illustrator and 
a writer from New York. 

I mentioned that to the M. F. H., and told him of my 
earlier impression as to hunt-club habits. 

"Lots of people have that idea," he smiled, "but it is 

53 



ABROAD AT HOME 

wrong. As a matter of fact, few hunting people are 
teetotalers, but those who ride straight are almost in- 
variably temperate. They have to be. You can't be 
in the saddle six or eight hours at a stretch, riding across 
country, and do it on alcohol." 

I also learned from the M. F. H. certain interesting 
things regarding a fox's scent. Without having 
thought upon the subject, I had somehow acquired the 
idea that hounds got the scent from the actual tracks of 
the animal they followed. That is not so. The scent 
comes from the body of the fox and is left behind him 
suspended in the air. And, other conditions being 
equal, the harder your fox runs the stronger his scent 
will be. The most favorable scent for following is what 
is known as a "breast-high scent" — meaning a scent 
which hangs in suspension at a point sufficiently high to 
render it unnecessary for the hounds to put their heads 
down to the ground. Sometimes a scent hangs low; 
sometimes, on the other hand, it rises so that, particu- 
larly in a covert, the riders, seated upon their horses, 
can smell it, while the hounds cannot. 

But I think I have said enough about this kind of 
thing. It is a dangerous topic, for the terminology and 
etiquette of hunting are even more elaborate than those 
of golf. Probably I have made some mistake already ; in- 
deed, I know of one which I just escaped — I started to 
write "dogs" instead of "hounds," and that is not done. 
I have a horror of displaying my ignorance on matters 
of this kind. For I take a kind of pride — and I think 

54 



MORE CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS 

most men do — in being correct about comparatively un- 
important things. It is permissible to be wrong about 
important things, such as politics, finance, and reform, 
and to explain them, although you really know nothing 
about them. But with fox hunting it is different. 
There are some people who really do know about that, 
and they are likely to catch you. 

Two other Cleveland organizations should be men- 
tioned. 

Troop A of the Ohio National Guard is known as one 
of the most capable bodies of militia in the entire coun- 
try. It has been in existence for some forty years, and 
its membership has always been recruited from among 
the older and wealthier families of the city. The fame 
of Troop A has reached beyond Ohio, for imder its pop- 
ular title, "The Black Horse Troop," it has gone three 
times to Washington to act as escort to Presidents of 
the United States at the time of their inauguration. 
Cleveland is, furthermore, the headquarters for trot- 
ting racing. The Cleveland Gentlemen's Driving Club 
is an old and exceedingly active body, and its president, 
Mr. Harry K. Devereux, is also president of the Na- 
tional Trotting Association. 



A curious and characteristic thing which we encoun- 
tered in no other city is the Three-Cent Cult — a legacy 
left to the city by the late Tom Johnson. Cleveland's 

55 



ABROAD AT HOME 

street railway system is controlled by the city and 
the fare is not five cents, but three. But that is 
not all. A municipal lighting plant is, or soon will be, 
in operation, with charges of from one to three cents 
per kilowatt hour. Also the city has gone into the 
dance-hall business. There, too, the usual rate is cut: 
fifteen cents will buy five dances in the municipal dance 
halls, instead of three. No one will attempt to dispute 
that dancing, to-day, takes precedence over the mere 
matter of eating, yet it is worth mentioning that the 
Three-Cent Cult has even found its way into the lunch 
room. Sandwiches may be purchased in Cleveland for 
three cents which are not any worse than five-cent sand- 
wiches in other cities. 

Perhaps the finest thing about the Three-Cent Cult is 
the fact that it runs counter to one of the most pro- 
nounced and pitiable traits of our race: wastefulness. 
Sometimes it seems that, as a people, we take less pride 
in what we save than in what we throw aw^ay. We 
have a "There 's more where that came from !" attitude 
of mind. A man with thousands a year says : "Hell ! 
What 's a hundred ?" and a man with hundreds imitates 
him on a smaller scale. The humble fraction of a nickel 
is despised. All honor, then, to Cleveland — the city 
which teaches her people that two cents is worth saving, 
and then helps them to save it. Two points, in this con- 
nection, are interesting: 

One, that Cleveland has been trying to induce the 
Treasury Department to resume the coinage of a three- 

56 



MORE CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS 

cent piece; another, that the percentage of depositors 
in savings banks in Cleveland, in proportion to the 
population, is higher than in most other cities. And, 
by the way, the savings banks pay 4 per cent. 



We were taken in automobiles from one end of the 
city to the other. Down by the docks we saw gi- 
gantic, strange machines, expressive of Cleveland's 
lake commerce — machines for loading and unloading 
ships in the space of a few hours. One type of ma- 
chine would take a regular steel coal car in its enor- 
mous claws and turn that car over, emptying the load of 
coal into a ship as you might empty a cup of flour with 
your hand. Then it would set the car down again, right 
side up, upon the track, only to snatch the next one and 
repeat the operation. 

Another machine for unloading ore would send its 
great steel hands down into the vessel's hold, snatch 
them up filled with tons of the precious product of the 
mines, and, reaching around backward, drop the load 
into a waiting railroad car. The present Great Lakes 
record for loading is held by the steamer Corry, which 
has taken on a cargo of 10,000 tons of ore in twenty- 
five minutes. The record for unloading is held by the 
George F. Perkins, from which a cargo of 10,250 tons 
of ore was removed in two hours and forty-five minutes. 

Some of the largest steamers of the Great Lakes may 
be compared, in size, with ocean liners. A modern ore 

57 



ABROAD AT HOME 

boat is a steel shell more than six hundred feet long, with 
a little space set aside at the bows for quarters and a 
little space astern for engines. The deck is a series 
of enormous hatches, so that practically the entire top 
of the ship may be removed in order to facilitate loading 
and unloading. As these great vessels (many of which 
are built in Cleveland, by the way) are laid up through- 
out the winter, when navigation on the Great Lakes is 
closed, it is the custom to drive them hard dur- 
ing the open season. Some of them make as many 
as thirty trips in the eight months of their activity, and 
an idea of the volume of their traffic may be gotten 
from the statement that "the iron-ore tonnage of the 
Cleveland district is greater than the total tonnage of 
exports and imports at New York Harbor." One of 
the little books about Cleveland, which they gave me, 
makes that statement. It does not sound as though it 
could be true, but I do not think they would dare print 
untruths about a thing like that, no matter how anxious 
they might be to "boost." However, I feel it my duty to 
add that the same books says : "Fifty per cent, of the 
population of the United States and Canada lies within 
a radius of five hundred miles of Cleveland." 



T find that when I try to recall to my mind the pic- 
ture of a city, I think of certain streets which, for one 
reason or another, engraved themselves more deepiv 
than other streets upon my memory. One of my clear- 

58 



MORE CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS 

est mental photographs of Cleveland is of endless 
streets of homes. 

Now, although I saw many houses, large and small, 
possessing real beauty — most of them along the boule- 
vards, in the Wade Park Allotment or on Euclid 
Heights, where modern taste has had its opportunity — 
it is nevertheless true that, for some curious reason con- 
nected with the workings of the mind, those streets which 
I remember best, after some months of absence, are not 
the streets possessed of the most charm. 

I remember vividly, for instance, my disappointment 
on viewing the decay of Euclid Avenue, which I had 
heard compared with Delaware, in Buffalo, and which, 
in reality, does not compare with it at all, being rather 
run down, and lined with those architectural monstrosi- 
ties of the 70's which, instead of mellowing into respect- 
able antiquity, have the unhappy faculty of becoming 
more horrible with time, like old painted harridans. 
Another vivid recollection is of a sad monotony of 
streets, differing only in name, containing blocks 
and blocks and miles and miles of humble wooden 
homes, all very much alike in their uninteresting dupli- 
cation. 

These memories would make my mental Cleveland pic- 
ture somewhat sad, were it not for another recollection 
which dominates the picture and glorifies the city. This 
recollection, too, has to do with squalid thoroughfares, 
but in a different way. 

Down near the railroad station, where the "red-light 

59 



ABROAD AT HOME 

district" used to be, there has long stood a tract of sev- 
eral blocks of little buildings, dismal and dilapidated. 
They are coming down. Some of them have come 
down. And there, in that place which was the home of 
ugliness and vice, there now shows the beginning of the 
city's Municipal Group Plan. This plan is one of the 
finest things which any city in the land has contem- 
plated for its own beautification. In this country it 
was, at the time it originated, unique ; and though other 
cities (such as Denver and San Francisco) are now at 
work on similar improvements, the Cleveland plan re- 
mains, I believe, the most imposing and the most com- 
plete of its kind. 

When an American city has needed some new pub- 
lic building it has been the custom, in the past, for the 
politicians to settle on a site, and cause plans to be drawn 
(by their cousins), and cause those plans to be executed 
(by their brothers-in-law). This may have been "prac- 
tical politics," but it has hardly resulted in practical city 
improvement. 

No one will dispute the convenience of having public 
buildings "handy" to one another, but there may still 
be found, even in Cleveland, men whose feeling for 
beauty is not so highly developed as their feeling for 
finance; men who shake their heads at the mention of 
a group plan; who don't like to "see all that money 
wasted." I met one or two such. But I will venture 
the prophecy that, when the Cleveland plan is a little 
farther advanced, so that the eye can realize the amaz- 

60 



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MORE CLEVELAND CHARACTERISTICS 

ing splendor of the thing, as it will ultimately be, there 
will be no one left in Cleveland to convert. 

It is a fine and unusual thing, in itself, for an Amer- 
ican city to be planning its own beauty fifty years ahead. 
Cleveland is almost un-American in that! But when 
the work done — yes, and before it is done — this single 
great improvement will have transformed Cleveland 
from an ordinary looking city to one of great distinc- 
tion. 

Fancy emerging from a splendid railway station to 
find yourself facing, not the little bars and dingy build- 
ings which so often face a station, but a splendid mall, 
two thousand feet long and six hundred wide, parked in 
the center and surrounded by fine buildings of even 
cornice height and harmonious classical design. At one 
side of the station will stand the public library; at the 
other the Federal building; and at the far extremity of 
the mall, the county building and the city hall. 

Three of these buildings are already standing. Two 
more are under way. The plan is no longer a mere plan 
but is already, in part, an actuality. 

When the transformation is complete Cleveland will 
not only have remade herself but will have set a mag- 
nificent example to other cities. By that time she 
may have ceased to call herself "Sixth City" — for pop- 
ulation changes. But if a hundred other cities follow 
her with group plans, and whether those plans be of 
greater magnitude or less, it must never be forgotten 
that Cleveland had the appreciation and the courage to 

6i 



ABROAD AT HOME 
beo-in the movement in America, not merely on paper 
but in stone and marble, and that, without regard to 
population, she therefore has a certain right, to-day, to 
call herself "First City." 



62 



MICHIGAN MEANDERINGS 



CHAPTER V 
DETROIT THE DYNAMIC 

BECAUSE Buffalo, Cleveland, and Detroit are, in 
effect, situated upon Lake Erie, and because 
they are cities of approximately the same size, 
and because of many other resemblances between them, 
they always seem to me like three sisters living amicably 
in three separate houses on the same block. 

As I personify them, Buffalo, living at the eastern 
end of the block, is the smallest sister. She has, I fear, 
a slight tendency to be anemic. Her husband, who was 
in the shipping business, is getting old. He has re- 
tired and is living in contentment in the old house, sit- 
ting all day on the side porch, behind the vines, with his 
slippers cocked up on the porch rail, smoking cigars and 
reading his newspapers in peace. 

Cleveland is the fat sister. She is very rich, having 
married into the Rockefeller family. She is placid, sat- 
isfied, dogmatically religious, and inclined to platitudes 
and missionary work. Her house, in the middle of the 
block, is a mansion of the seventies. It has a cupola and 
there are iron fences on the roof, as though to keep the 
birds from falling off. The lawn is decorated with a 

65 



ABROAD AT HOME 

pair of iron dogs. But there are plans in the old house 
for a new one. 

The first two sisters have a kind of family resem- 
blance which the third does not fully share. Detroit 
seems younger than her sisters. Indeed, you might al- 
most mistake her for one of their daughters. The belle 
of the family, she is married to a young man who is 
making piles of money in the automobile business — and 
spending piles, too. Their house, at the western end of 
the block, is new and charming. 

I am half in love with Detroit. I may as well^ admit 
it, for you are sure to find me out. She is beautiful — 
not with the warm, passionate beauty of San Francisco, 
the austere mountain beauty of Denver, nor the strange, 
sophisticated, destroying beauty of New York, but with 
a sweet domestic kind of beauty, like that of a young 
wife, gay, strong, alert, enthusiastic; a twinkle in her 
eye, a laugh upon her lips. She has temperament and 
charm, qualities as rare, as fascinating, and as difficult 
to define in a city as in a human being. 

Do you ask why she is difl^erent from her sisters ? I 
w^as afraid you might ask that. They tell a romantic 
story. I don't like to repeat gossip, but — They say 
that, long ago, when her mother lived upon a little farm 
by the river, there came along a dashing voyageur, from 
France, who loved her. Mind you, I vouch for noth- 
ing. It is a legend. I do not affirm that it is true. 
But — voila! There is Detroit. She is different: 

If you will consider these three fictitious sisters as 

66 



DETROIT THE DYNAMIC 

figures in a cartoon — a cartoon not devoid of carica- 
ture — you will get an impression of my impression of 
three cities. My three sisters are merely symbols, like 
the figures of Uncle Sam and John Bull. A symbol is 
a kind of generalization, and if you disagree with 
these generalizations of mine (as I think you may, 
especially if you live in Buffalo or Cleveland), let me 
remind you that some one has said: "All generaliza- 
tions are false — including this one." One respect in 
which my generalization is false is in picturing Detroit 
as young. As a matter of fact, she is the oldest city 
of the three, having been settled by the Sieur de la 
Mothe Cadillac in 1701, ninety years before the first 
white man built his hut where Buffalo now stands, and 
ninety-five years before the settlement of Cleveland. 
This is the fact. Yet I hold that there is about Detroit 
something which expresses ebullient youth, and that 
Buffalo and Cleveland, if they do not altogether lack 
the quality of youth, have it in a less degree. 

So far as I recall, Chicago was the first American city 
to adopt a motto, or, as they call it now, a "slogan." 

I remember long ago a rather crude bust of a helmeted 
Amazon bearing upon her proud chest the words: "I 
Will!" She was supposed to typify Chicago, and I 
rather think she did. Cleveland's slogan is the con- 
servative but significant "Sixth City," but Detroit comes 
out with a youthful shriek of self-satisfaction, declar- 
ing that: "In Detroit Life is Worth Living!" 

67 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Doesn't that claim reflect the quality of youth? 
Does n't it remind you of the little boy who says to the 
other little boy: *'My father can lick your father"? 
Of course it has the patent-medicine flavor, too; De- 
troit, by her "slogan," is a cure-all. But that is not de- 
liberate. It is exaggeration springing from natural op- 
timism and exuberance. Life is doubtless more worth 
living in Detroit than in some other cities, but I submit 
that, so long as Mark Twain's "damn human race" re- 
tains those foibles of mind, morals, and body for which 
it is so justly famous, the "slogan" of the city of Detroit 
guarantees a little bit too much. 

I find the same exuberance in the publications issued 
by the Detroit Board of Commerce. Having just left 
the Cleveland Chamber of Commerce, I sedulously 
avoided contact with the Detroit body — one can get an 
overdose of that kind of thing. But I have several 
books. One is a magazine called "The Detroiter," with 
the subtitle "Spokesman of Optimism." It is full of 
news of new hotels and new factories and new athletic 
clubs and all kinds of expansion. It fairly bursts from 
its covers with enthusiasm — and with business banali- 
ties about Detroit's "onward sweep," her "surging 
ahead," her "banner year," and her "efficiency." "Be 
a Booster," it advises, and no one can say that it does 
not live up to its principles. Indeed, as I look it over, 
I wonder if I have not done Detroit an injustice in giv- 
ing to Cleveland the blue ribbon for "boosting." The 
Detroit Board of Commerce even goes so far in its 

68 



DETROIT THE DYNAMIC * 

''boosting" as to ''boost" Detroit into seventh place 
among American cities, while the " World Almanac" 
(most valuable volume on the one-foot shelf of books I 
carried on my travels) places Detroit ninth. 

Like Cleveland, I find that Detroit is first in the pro- 
duction of a great many things. In fact, the more I 
read these books issued by commercial bodies, the 
more I am amazed at the varied things there are for 
cities to be first in. It is a miserable city, indeed, which 
is first in nothing at all. Detroit is first in the produc- 
tion of overalls, stoves, varnish, soda and salt products, 
automobile accessories, adding machines, pharmaceuti- 
cal manufactures, aluminum castings, in shipbuilding on 
the Great Lakes and, above all, in the manufacture of 
motor cars. And, as the Board of Commerce adds sig- 
nificantly, "That 's not all !" 

But it is enough. 



The motor-car development in Detroit interested 
me particularly. When I asked in Buffalo why Detroit 
was "surging ahead" so rapidly in comparison with cer- 
tain other cities, they answered, as I knew they would: 
"It 's the automobile business." 

But when I asked why the automobile business should 
have settled on Detroit as a headquarters instead of 
some other city (as, for instance, Bufifalo), they found 
it difficult to say. One Bufifalonian informed me that 
Detroit banks had been more liberal than those of other 

69 



ABROAD AT HOME 

cities in supporting the motor industry in its early days. 
This was, however, vigorously denied in Detroit. 
When I mentioned it to the president of one of the larg- 
est automobile concerns he laughed. 

''Banks don't do business that way," he declared. 
"The very thing banks do not do is to support new, un- 
tried industries. After you have proved that you can 
make both motor cars and money they '11 take care of 
you. Not before. On the other hand, when the b.anks 
get confidence in any one kind of business they very 
often run to the opposite extreme. That was the way 
it used to be in the lumber business. Most of the early 
fortunes of Detroit were made in lumber. The banks 
got used to the lumber business, so that a few years ago 
all a man had to do was to print 'Lumber' on his letter- 
head, write to the banks and get a line of credit. Later, 
when the automobile business began to boom, the same 
thing happened over again: the man whose letterhead 
bore the word 'Automobiles' was taken care of." The 
implication was that sometimes he was taken care of a 
little bit too well. 

"Then why did Detroit become the automobile cen- 
ter?" I asked. 

The question proved good for an hour's discussion 
among certain learned pundits of the "trade" who were 
in the president's office at the time I asked it. 

First, it was concluded, several early motor "bugs" 
happened to live in or near Detroit. Henry Ford lived 
there. He was always experimenting with "horseless 

70 




In midstream passes a continual parade of freighters . . . and in their 
swell you may see, teetering, all kinds of craft, from proud white yaclits 
to canoes 



DETROIT THE DYNAMIC 

carriages" in the early days and being laughed at for it. 
Also, a man named Packard built a car at Warren, Ohio. 
But the first gasoline motor car to achieve what they 
call an ''output" was the funny little one-cyclinder Olds- 
mobile which steered with a tiller and had a curved 
dash like a sleigh. It is to the Olds Motor Compan}^, 
which built that car, that a large majority of the auto- 
mobile manufactories in Detroit trace their origin. In- 
deed, there are to-day no less than a dozen organiza- 
tions, the heads of which were at some time connected 
with the original Olds Company. This fifteen-year-old 
forefather of the automobile business was orioinallv 
made in Lansing, Mich., but the plant was moved to De- 
troit, where the market for labor and materials was bet- 
ter. The Packard plant was also moved there, and 
for the same reasons, plus the fact that the com- 
pany was being financed by a group of young Detroit 
men. 

It was not, perhaps, entirely as an investment that 
these wealthy young Detroiters first became interested 
in the building of motor cars. That is to say, I do not 
think they would have poured money so freely into a 
scheme to manufacture something else — something less 
picturesque in its appeal to the sporting instinct and the 
imagination. The automobile, with its promise, was 
just the right thing to interest rich young men, and it 
did interest them, and it has made many of them richer 
than they were before. 

It seems to be an axiom that, if you start a new busi- 

71 



ABROAD AT HOME 

ness anywhere, and it is successful, others wih start in 
the same business beside you. One of the pundits re- 
ferred me, for example, to Erie, Pa., where life is en- 
tirely saturated with engine and boiler ideas simply be- 
cause the Erie City Iron Works started there and was 
successful. There are now sixteen engine and boiler 
companies in Erie, and all of them, I am assured, are 
there either directly or indirectly because the Erie City 
Iron Works is there. In other words, we sat in 
that office and had a very pleasant hour's talk merely to 
discover that there is truth in the familiar saying about 
birds of a feather. 

When we got that settled and the pundits began to 
drift away to other plate-glass rooms along the mile, 
more or less, of corridor devoted to officials' offices, I 
became interested in a little wooden box which stood 
upon the president's large flat-top desk. I was told it 
was a dictagraph. Never having seen a dictagraph be- 
fore, and being something of a child, I wished to play 
with it as I used to play with typewriters and letter- 
presses in my father's office years ago. And the presi- 
dent of this many-million-dollar corporation, being a 
kindly man with, of course, absolutely nothing to do but 
to supply itinerant scribes with playthings, let me toy 
with the machine. Sitting at the desk, he pressed a 
key. Then, without changing his position, he spoke 
into the air: 

"Fred," he said, "there 's some one here who wants 
to ask you a question." 

72 



DETROIT THE DYNAMIC 

Then the Httle wooden box began to talk. 

"What does he want to ask about ?" it said. 

That put it up to me. I had to think of something to 
ask. I was conscious of a strange, unpleasant feeling of 
being hurried — of having to reply quickly before some- 
thing happened — some breaking of connections. 

I leaned toward the machine, but the president waved 
me back: "J^ist sit over there where you are." 

Then I said: *T am writing articles about Buffalo, 
Cleveland, and Detroit. How would you compare 
them?" 

"Well," replied the Fred-in-the-box, "I used to live 
in Cleveland. I Ve been here four years and I would n't 
want to go back." 

After that we paused. I thought I ought to say some- 
thing more to the box, but I did n't know just what. 

"Is that all you want to know?" it asked. 

"Yes," I replied hurriedly. "I 'm much obliged. 
That 's all I want to know." 

Of course it really was n't all — not by any means ! 
But I could n't bring myself to say so then, so I said the 
easy, obvious thing, and after that it was too late. Oh, 
how many things there are I want to know! How 
many things I think of now which I would ask an oracle 
when there is none to ask ! Things about the here and 
the hereafter; about the human spirit; about practical 
religion, the brotherhood of man, the inequalities of 
men, evolution, reform, the enduring mysteries of space, 
time, eternity, and woman! 

73 



ABROAD AT HOME 

A friend of mine — a spiritualist — once told me of a 
seance in which he thought himself in brief communica- 
tion with his mother. There were a million things to 
say. But when the medium requested him to give a mes- 
sage he could only falter: "Are you all right over 
there?" The answer came: "Yes, all right." Then 
my friend said : "I 'm so glad !" And that was all. 

*Tt is the feeling of awful pressure," 'he explained to 
me, "which drives the thoughts out of your head. That 
is why so many messages from the spirit world sound 
silly and inconsequential. You have the one great 
chance to communicate with them, and, because it is 
your one great chance, you cannot think of anything to 
say." Somehow I imagine that the feeling must be 
like the one I had in talking to the dictagraph. 



Among the characteristics which give Detroit her in- 
dividuality is the survival of her old-time aristocracy; 
she is one of the few middle-western cities possessing 
such a social order. As with that of St. Louis, this 
aristocracy is of French descent, the Sibleys, Campaus, 
and other old Detroit families tracing their genealogies 
to forefathers who came out to the New World under 
the flag of Louis XIV. The early habitants acquired 
farms, most of them with small frontages on the river 
and running back for several miles into the woods — an 
arrangement which permitted farmhouses to be built 
close together for protection against Indians. These 

74 



DETROIT THE DYNAMIC 

farms, handed down for generations, form the basis of 
a number of Detroit's older family fortunes. 

To-day commerce takes up the downtown portion of 
the river front, but not far from the center of the city 
the shore line is still occupied by residences. Along 
Jefferson Avenue are many homes, surrounded by de- 
lightful lawns extending forward to the street and back 
to the river. Most of these homes have in their back 
yards boathouses and docks — some of the latter large 
enough to berth seagoing steam yachts, of which De- 
troit boasts a considerable number. Nor is the water 
front reserved entirely for private use. In Belle Isle, 
situated in the Detroit River, and accessible by either 
boat or bridge, the city possesses one of the most un- 
usual and charming public parks to be seen in the entire 
world. And there are many other pleasant places near 
Detroit which may be reached by boat — among them 
the St. Clair Flats, famous for duck shooting. All 
these features combine to make the river life active and 
picturesque. In midstream passes a continual parade 
of freighters, a little mail boat dodging out to meet each 
one as it goes by. Huge side-wheel excursion steamers 
come and go, and in their swell you may see, teetering, 
all kinds of craft, from proud white yachts with shining 
brasswork and bowsprits having the expression of 
haughty turned-up noses, down through the category of 
schooners, barges, tugs, motor yachts, motor boats, 
sloops, small sailboats, rowboats, and canoes. You 
may even catch sight of a hydroplane swiftly skimming 

75 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the surface of the river Hke some amphibious, prehis- 
toric animal, or of that natty httle gunboat, captured 
from the Spaniards at the battle of Manila Bay, which 
now serves as a training ship for the Michigan Naval 
Reserve. 

A good many of the young aristocrats of Detroit have 
belonged to the Naval Reserve, among them Mr. Tru- 
man H. Newberry, former Secretary of the Navy, about 
whom I heard an amusing story. 

According to this tale, as it was told me in Detroit, Mr. 
Newberry was some years ago a common seaman in the 
Reserve. It seems that on the occasion of the annual 
cruise of this body on the Great Lakes, a regular naval 
officer is sent out to take command of the training ship. 
One day, when common seaman Newberry was engaged 
in the maritime occupation of swabbing down the decks 
abaft the bridge, a large yacht passed majestically by. 

"My man," said the regular naval officer on the bridge 
to common seaman Newberry below, "do you know what 
yacht that is?" 

Newberry saluted. "The Tnianf, sir," he said re- 
spectfully, and resumed his work. 

"Who owns her?" asked the officer. 

Again Newberry straightened and saluted. 

"I do, sir," he said. 



76 



CHAPTER VI 
AUTOMOBILES AND ART 

WITHIN the last few years there has come to 
Detroit a new life. The vast growth of the 
city, owing to the development of the auto- 
mobile industry, has brought in many new, active, able 
business men and their families, whom the old Detroit- 
ers have dubbed the "Gasoline Aristocracy/' Thus 
there are in Detroit two fairly distinct social groups — 
the Grosse Pointe group, of which the old families form 
the nucleus, and the North Woodward group, largely 
made up of newcomers. | 

The automobile has not only changed Detroit from 
a quiet old town into a rich, active city, but upon the 
drowsy romance of the old days it has superimposed a 
new kind of romance — the romance of modern business. 
Fiction in its wildest flights hardly rivals the true stories 
of certain motor moguls of Detroit. Every one can 
tell you these stories. If you are a novelist all you 
have to do is go and get them. But, aside from stories jl 

which are true, there have developed, in connection with 
the automobile business, certain fictions more or less 
picturesque in character. One of these, which has been 
widely circulated, is that "90 per cent, of the automobile 

77. 



ABROAD AT HOME 

business of Detroit is done in the bar of the Pontchar- 
train Hotel." The big men of the business resent that 
yarn. And, of course, it is preposterously false. 
Neither 90 per cent, nor 10 per cent, nor any appreciable 
per cent, of the automobile business is done there. In- 
deed, you hardly ever see a really important representa- 
tive of the business in that place. Such men are not 
given to hanging around bars. 

I do not wish the reader to infer that I hung around 
the bar myself in order to ascertain this fact. Not at 
all. I had heard the story and was apprised of its un- 
truth by the president of one of the large motor car 
companies who was generously showing me about. As 
we bowled along one of the wide streets which passes 
through that open place at the center of the city called 
the Campus Martins, T was struck, as an}^ visitor must 
be, by the spectacle of hundreds upon hundreds of auto- 
mobiles parked, nose to the curb, tail to the street, in 
solid rows. 

"You could tell that this was an automobile city," I 
remarked. 

"Do you know why you see so many of them?" he 
asked with a smile. 

I said I supposed it was because there were so many 
automobiles owned in Detroit. 

"No," he explained. "In other cities with as many 
and more cars you will not see this kind of thing. They 
don't permit it. But our wide streets lend themselves 
to it, and our Chief of Police, who believes in the auto- 

78 



AUTOMOBILES AND ART 

mobile business as much as any of the rest of us, also 
lends himself to it. He lets us leave our cars about the 
streets because he thinks it a good advertisement for the 
town." 

As he spoke he was forced to draw up at a crossing 
to let a funeral pass. It was an automobile funeral. 
The hearse, black and terrible as only a hearse can be, 
was going at a modest pace for a motor, but an exceed- 
ingly rapid pace for a hearse. If I am any judge of 
speed, the departed was being wafted to his final rest- 
ing place at the somewhat sprightly clip of twelve or 
fifteen miles an hour. Behind the hearse trailed 
limousines and touring cars. Two humble taxicabs 
brought up the rear. There was a grim ridiculousness 
about the procession's progress — pleasure cars throttled 
down, trying to look solemn — chauffeurs continually 
throwing out their clutches in a commendable effort to 
keep a respectful rate of speed. 

Is there any other thing in the world which epito- 
mizes our times as does an automobile funeral? Yes- 
terday such a thing would have been deemed indecor- 
ous ; to-day it is not only decorous, but rather chic, pro- 
vided that the pace be slow; to-morrow — what will it 
be then? Will hearses go shooting through the streets 
at forty miles an hour? Will mourners scorch behind, 
their horns shrieking signals to the driver of the hearse 
to get out of the road and let the swiftest pass ahead, 
where there is n't all that dust ? I am afraid a time is 
close at hand when, if hearses are to maintain that posi- 

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ABROAD AT HOME 

tion In the funeral cortege to which convention has in 
the past assigned them, they will have to hold it by sheer 
force of superior horsepower ! 



Detroit is a young man's town. I do not think the 
stand-pat, sit-tight, go-easy kind of business man ex- 
ists there. The wheel of commerce has wire spokes and 
rubber tires, and there is no drag upon the brake band. 
Youth is at the steering wheel — both figuratively and 
literally. The heads of great Detroit industries drive 
their own cars; and if the fact seems unimportant, con- 
sider : do the leading men of your city drive theirs ? Or 
are they driven by chauffeurs? Have they, in other 
words, reached a time of life and a frame of mind which 
prohibit their taking the wheel because it is not safe 
for them to do so, or worse yet, because it is not digni- 
fied? Have they that energy which replaces worn-out 
tires — and methods — and ideas? 

I have said that the president of a large automobile 
company showed me about Detroit. I don't know what 
his age is, but he is under thirty-five. I don't know 
what his fortune is, but he is suspected of a million, and 
whatever he may have, he has made himself. I hope 
he is a millionaire, for there is in the entire world only 
one other man who, I feel absolutely certain, deserves 
a million dollars more than he does — and a native mod- 
esty prevents my mentioning this other's name. 

Looking at my friend, the president, I am always 

80 



AUTOMOBILES AND ART 

struck with fresh amazement. I want to say to him: 
''You can't be the president of that great big company ! 
I know you sit in the president's office, but — look at 
your hair ; it is n't even turning gray ! I refuse to 
beheve that you are president until you show me your 
ticket, or your diploma, or whatever it is that a presi- 
dent has!" 

Becoming curious about his exact age, I took up my 
"Who 's Who in America" one evening ("Who 's Who" 
is another valued volume on my one-foot shelf) with a 
view to finding out. But all I did find out was that 
his name is not contained therein. That struck me as 
surprising. I looked up the heads of half a dozen other 
enormous automobile companies — men of importance, 
interest, reputation. Of these I discovered the name of 
but one, and that one was not (as I should have rather 
expected it to be) Henry Ford. (There is a Henry 
Ford in my "Who 's Who," but he is a professor at 
Princeton and writes for the Atlantic Monthly!)^ 

Now whether this is so because of the newness of the 
automobile business, or because "Who 's Who" turns up 
its nose at "trade," in contradistinction to the profes- 
sions and the arts, I cannot say. Obviously, the com- 
pilation of such a work involves tremendous difficulties, 
and I have always respected the volume for the ability 
with which it overcomes them; but when a Detroit 
dentist (who invented, as I recollect, some new kind of 

1 "Who 's Who" for 1913-1914. The more recent vohmie, which has 
come out since, contains a biographical sketch of Mr. Henry Ford of 
Detroit. 

§1 



ABROAD AT HOME 

filling) is included in **Who 's Who," and when almost 
every minor poet who squeaks is in it, and almost every 
illustrator who makes candy-looking girls for magazine 
covers, and almost every writer — then it seems to me 
time to include, as well, the names of men who are in 
charge of that industry which is not only the greatest 
in Detroit, but which, more than any industry since the 
inception of the telephone, has transformed our life. 

The fact of the matter is, of course, that writers, in 
particular, are taken too seriously, not merely by 
''Who 's W^ho" but by all kinds of publications — espe- 
cially newspapers. Only opera singers and actors can 
vie with writers in the amount of undeserved publicity 
which they receive. If I omit professional baseball 
players it is by intention ; for, as a fan might say, they 
have to "deliver the goods." 



Baedeker's United States, a third volume in the con- 
densed library I carried in my trunk, sets forth (in 
small type!) the following: "The finest private art 
gallery in Detroit is that of Mr. Charles L. Freer. The 
gallery contains the largest group of works by Whistler 
in existence and good examples of Tryon, Dewing, and 
Abbott Thayer as well as many Oriental paintings and 
potteries." 

But in the case of the Detroit Museum of Art, 
Baedeker bursts into black-faced type, and even adds an 
asterisk, his mark of special commendation. Also a 

82 



AUTOMOBILES AND ART 

considerable reference is made to various collections 
contained by the museum: the Scripps collection of old 
masters, the Stearns collection of Oriental curiosities, 
a painting by Rubens, drawings by Raphael and Michel- 
angelo, and a great many works attributed to ancient 
Italian and Dutch masters. ''The museum also con- 
tains," says Baedeker, "modern paintings by Gari 
Melchers, Munkacsy, Tryon, F. D. Millet, and 
others." 

I have quoted Baedeker as above, because it reveals 
the bald fact with regard to art in Detroit ; also because 
it reveals the even balder fact that our blessed old 
friend Baedeker, who has helped us all so much, can, 
when he cuts loose on art, make himself exquisitely ri- 
diculous. 

The truth is, of course, that Mr. Freer's gallery is not 
merely the "finest private gallery in Detroit"; not 
merely the finest gallery of any kind in Detroit; but 
that it is one of the exceedingly important collections of 
the world, just as Mr. Freer is one of the world's ex- 
ceedingly important authorities on art. Indeed, any 
town which contains Mr. Freer — even if he is only stop- 
ping overnight in a hotel — becomes by grace of his 
presence an important art center for the time being. 
His mere presence is sufficient. For in Mr. Freer's 
head there is more art than is contained in many a mu- 
seum. He was the man whom, above all others in De- 
troit, we wished to see. (And that is no disparage- 
ment of Henry Ford.) 

83 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Once In a long, long time it is given to the average 
human being to make contact for a brief space with 
some other human being far above the average — a man 
who knows one thing supremely well. I have met six 
such men : a surgeon, a musician, an author, an actor, a 
painter, and Mr. Charles L. Freer. 

I do not know much of Mr. Freer's history. He was 
not born in Detroit, though it was there that he made 
the fortune which enabled him to retire from business. 
It is surprising enough to hear of an American business 
man willing to retire in the prime of life. You expect 
that in Europe, not here. And it is still more surpris- 
ing when that American business man begins to devote 
to art the same energy which made him a success 
financially. Few would want to do that; fewer could. 
By the time the average successful man has wrung 
from the world a few hundred thousand dollars, he is 
fit for nothing else. He has become a wringer and must 
remain one always. 

Of course rich men collect pictures. I 'm not deny- 
ing that. But they do it, generally, for the same rea- 
son they collect butlers and footmen — because tradition 
says it is the proper thing to do. And I have observed 
in the course of my meanderings that they are almost 
invariably better judges of butlers than of paintings. 
That is because their butlers are really and truly more 
important to them — excepting as their paintings have 
financial value. Still, if the world is full of so-called 
art collectors who don't know what they 're doing, let us 

84 



AUTOMOBILES AND ART 

not think of them too harshly, for there are also paint- 
ers who do not know what they are doing, and it is nec- 
essary that some one should support them. Otherwise 
they would starve, and a bad painter should not have to 
do that — starvation being an honor reserved by tradi- 
tion for the truly great. 

Very keenly I feel the futility of an attempt to tell 
of Mr. Freer in a few paragraphs. He should be dealt 
with as Mark Twain was dealt with by that prince of 
biographers, Albert Bigelow Paine; some one should 
live with him through the remainder of his life — al- 
ways sympathetic and appreciative, always ready to 
draw him out, always with a notebook. It should be 
some one just like Paine, and as there is n't some one 
just like Paine, it should be Paine himself. 

Probably as a development of his original interest in 
Whistler, Mr. Freer has, of late years, devoted himself 
almost entirely to ancient Oriental art — sculptures, 
paintings, ceramics, bronzes, textiles, lacquers and 
jades. The very rumor that in some little town in 
the interior of China was an old vase finer than any 
other known vase of the kind, has been enough to set 
him traveling. Many of his greatest treasures he has 
unearthed, bargained for and acquired at first hand, in 
remote parts of the globe. He bearded Whistler in his 
den — that is a story by itself. He purchased Whis- 
tler's famous^ Peacock Room, brought it to this coun- 
try and set it up in his own house. He traveled on 
elephant-back through the jungles of India and Java 

85 



ABROAD AT HOME 

in search of buried temples ; to Egypt for Biblical manu- 
scripts and potteries, and to the nearer East, years ago, 
in quest of the now famous "lustered glazes." He 
made many trips to Japan, in early days, to study, in 
ancient temples and private collections, the fine arts of 
China, Corea and Japan, and was the first American 
student to visit the rock-hewn caves of central China, 
with their thousands of specimens of early sculpture — 
sculpture ranking, Mr. Freer says, with the best sculp- 
ture of the world. 

The photographs and rubbings of these objects made 
under Mr. Freer's personal supervision have greatly 
aided students, all over the globe. Every important 
public library in this country and abroad has been pre- 
sented by Mr. Freer with fac-similes of the Biblical 
manuscripts discovered by him in Egypt about seven 
years ago, so far as these have been published. The 
original manuscripts will ultimately go to the National 
Gallery, at Washington. 

Mr. Freer's later life has been one long treasure hunt. 
Now he will be pursuing a pair of mysterious por- 
celains around the earth, catching up with them in 
China, losing them, finding them again in Japan, or in 
New York, or Paris; now discovering in some un- 
heard-of Chinese town a venerable masterpiece, painted 
on silk, which has been rolled into a ball for a child's 
plaything. The placid pleasures of conventional col- 
lecting, through the dealers, is not the thing that Mr. 
Freer loves. He loves the chase. 



AUTOMOBILES AND ART 

You should see him handle his ceramics. You should 
hear him talk of them! He knozvs. And though you 
do not know, you know he knows. More, he is willing 
to explain. For, though his intolerance is great, it is 
not directed so much at honest ignorance as against 
meretricious art. 

The names of ancient Chinese painters, of emperors 
who practised art centuries ago, of dynasties covering 
thousands of years, of Biblical periods, flow kindly from 
his lips: 

"This dish is Grecian. It was made five hundred 
years before the birth of Christ. This is a Chinese 
marble, but you see it has a Persian scroll in high re- 
lief. And this bronze urn: it is perhaps the oldest 
piece I have — about four thousand years — it is Chinese. 
But do you see this border on it? Perfect Greek! 
Where did the Chinese get that? Art is universal. 
We may call an object Greek, or Roman, or Assyrian, 
or Chinese, or Japanese, but as we begin to understand, 
we find that other races had the same thing — identical 
forms and designs. Take, for example, this painting of 
Whistler's, 'The Gold Screen.' You see he uses the 
Tosa design. The Tosa was used in Japan in the 
eleventh and twelfth centuries, and down to about 
twenty years ago. But there was n't a single example 
of it in Europe in 1864, when Whistler painted The 
Gold Screen' ; and Whistler had not been to the Orient. 
Then, where did he get the Tosa design? He invented 

87 



ABROAD AT HOME 

it. It came to him because he was a great artist, and 
art is universal." 

It was Hke that — the spirit of it. And you must im- 
agine the words spoken with measured distinctness in a 
deep, resonant voice, by a man with whom art is a re- 
Hgion and the pursuit of it a passion. He has a nature 
full of fire. At the mention of the name of the late 
J. P. Morgan, of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or 
of certain Chinese collectors and painters of the distant 
past, a sort of holy flame of admiration rose and kindled 
in him. His contempt is also fire. A minor eruption 
occurred when the automobile industry was spoken of; 
a Vesuvian flare which reddened the sky and left the 
commercialism of the city in smoking ruins. But it 
was not until I chanced to mention the Detroit Museum 
of Art — an institution of which Mr. Freer strongly 
disapproves — that the great outburst came. His wrath 
was like an overpowering revolt of nature. A whirl- 
wind of tempestuous fire mounted to the heavens and 
the museum emerged a clinker. 

He went to our heads. We four, who saw and heard 
him, left Mr. Freer's house drunk with the esthetic. 
Even the flooding knowledge of our own barbarian ig- 
norance was not enough to sober us. Some of the 
flame had gotten into us. It was like old brandy. We 
waved our arms and cried out about art. For there 
is In a truly big human being — especially in one old 
enough to have seemed to gain perspective on the unl- 

88 



AUTOMOBILES AND ART 

verse — some quality which touches something in us that 
nothing else can ever reach. It is something which is 
not admiration only, nor vague longing to emulate, nor 
a quickened comprehension of the immensity of things; 
something emotional and spiritual and strange and in- 
describable which seems to set our souls to singing. 

The Freer collection will go, ultimately, to the Smith- 
sonian Institution (the National Gallery) in Washing- 
ton, a fact which is the cause of deep regret to many 
persons in Detroit, more especially since the City Plan 
and Improvement Commission has completed arrange- 
ments for a Center of Arts and Letters — a fine group 
plan which will assemble and give suitable setting to a 
new Museum of Art, Public Library, and other build- 
ings of like nature, including, a School of Design and an 
Orchestra Hall. The site for the new gallery of art 
was purchased with funds supplied by public-spirited 
citizens, and the city has given a million dollars toward 
the erection of the building. Plans for the library have 
been drawn by Cass Gilbert. 

It seems possible that, had the new art museum been 
started sooner, and with some guarantee of competent 
management, Mr. Freer might have considered it as an 
ultimate repository for his treasures. But now it is too 
late. That the present art museum — the old one — was 
not to be considered by him, is perfectly obvious. In- 
side and out it is unworthy. It looks as much like an 
old waterworks as the new waterworks out on Jeffer- 
son Avenue looks like a museum. Its foyer contains 

89 



ABROAD AT HOME 

some sculptured busts, forming the most amazing group 
I have ever seen. The group represents, I take it, 
prominent citizens of Detroit — among them, according 
to my recollection, the following: Hermes, Augustus 
Csesar, Mr. Bela Hubbard, Septimus Severus, the 
Hon. T. W. Palmer, Mr. Frederick Stearns, Apollo, 
Demosthenes, and the Hon. H. P. Lillibridge. 

I do not want to put things into people's heads, but — 
the old museum is not fireproof. God speed the new 
one! 



90 



CHAPTER VII 
THE M^CENAS OF THE MOTOR 

THE great trouble with Detroit, from my point of 
view, is that there is too much which should be 
mentioned: Grosse Pointe with its rich setting 
and rich homes; the fine new railroad station; the "Cab- 
bage Patch"; the "Indian Village" (so called because 
the streets bear Indian names) with its examples of 
modest, pleasing, domestic architecture. Then there 
are the boulevards, the fine Wayne County roads, the 
clubs — the Country Club, the Yacht Club, the Boat 
Club, the Detroit Club, the University Club, all with 
certain individuality. And there is the unique little 
Yondatega Club of which Theodore Roosevelt said: 
"It is beyond all doubt the best club in the coun- 
try." 

Also there is Henry Ford. 

I suppose there is no individual having to do with 
manufacturing of any kind whose name is at present 
more familiar to the world. But in all this ocean of 
publicity which has resulted from Mr. Ford's develop- 
ment of a reliable, cheap car, from the stupefying 
growth of his business and his fortune, and more re- 
cently from his sudden distribution among his working 
people of ten million dollars of profits from his busi- 

91 



ABROAD AT HOME 

ness — in all this publicity I have seen nothing that gave 
me a clear idea of Henry Ford himself. I wanted 
to see him — to assure myself that he was not some 
fabulous being out of a Detroit saga. I wanted to 
know what kind of man he was to look at and to listen 
to. 

The Ford plant is far, far out on Woodward Avenue. 
It is so gigantic that there is no use wasting words in 
trying to express its vastness; so full of people, all of 
them working for Ford, that a thousand or two more 
or less would make no difference in the looks of things. 
And among all those people there was just one man I 
really wanted to see, and just one man I really wanted 
not to see. I wanted to see Henry Ford and I wanted 
not to see a man named Liebold, because, they say, if you 
see Liebold first you never do see Ford. That is what 
Liebold is for. He is the man whose business in life 
it is to know where Henry Ford is n't. 

To get into Mr. Ford's presence is an vmdertaking. 
It is not easy even to find out whether he is there. Lie- 
bold is so zealous in his protection that he even protects 
Mr. Ford from his own employees. Thus, when the 
young official who had my companion and me in charge, 
received word over the office telephone that Mr. Ford 
was not in the building, he did n't believe it. He went 
on a quiet scouting expedition of his own before he 
was convinced. Presently he returned to the office in 
which he had deposited us. 

"No; he really is n't here just now," he said. "He '11 

92 



THE M/ECENAS OF THE MOTOR 

be in presently. Come on ; I '11 take you through the 
plant." 

The machine shop is one room, with a glass roof, 
covering an area of something less than thirty acres. 
It is simply unbelievable in its size, its noise and its 
ghastly furious activity. It was peopled when we were 
there by five thousand men — the da}^ shift in that one 
shop alone. (The total force of workmen was some- 
thing like three times that number.) 

Of course there was order in that place, of course 
there was system — relentless system — terrible "effi- 
ciency" — but to my mind, unaccustomed to such things, 
the whole room, with its interminable aisles, its whirl- 
ing shafts and wheels, its forest of roof-supporting 
posts and flapping, flying, leather belting, its endless 
rows of writhing machinery, its shrieking, hammering, 
and clatter, its smell of oil, its autumn haze of smoke, 
its savage-looking foreign population — to my mind it 
expressed but one thing, and that thing was delirium. 

Fancy a jungle of wheels and belts and weird iron 
forms — of men, machinery and movement — add to it 
every kind of sound you can imagine: the sound of a 
million squirrels chirking, a million monkeys quarrel- 
ing, a million lions roaring, a million pigs dying, a mil- 
lion elephants smashing through a forest of sheet iron, a 
million boys whistling on their fingers, a million others 
coughing with the whooping cough, a million sinners 
groaning as they are dragged to hell — imagine all of 

93 



ABROAD AT HOME 

this happening at the very edge of Niagara Falls, with 
the everlasting roar of the cataract as a perpetual back- 
ground, and you may acquire a vague conception of that 
place. 

Fancy all this riot going on at once ; then imagine the 
efifect of its suddenly ceasing. For that is what it did. 
The wheels slowed down and became still. The belts 
stopped flapping. The machines lay dead. The noise 
faded to a murmur; then to utter silence. Our ears 
rang with the quiet. The aisles all at once were full of 
men in overalls, each with a paper package or a box. 
Some of them walked swiftly toward the exits. Others 
settled down on piles of automobile parts, or the bases 
of machines, to eat, like grinn^ soldiers on a battlefield. 
It was the lull of noon. 

I was glad to leave the machine shop. It dazed me. 
I should have liked to leave it some time before I ac- 
tually did, but the agreeable young enthusiast who was 
conducting us delighted in explaining things — shout- 
ing the explanations in our ears. Half of them I could 
not hear; the other half I could not comprehend. Here 
and there I recognized familiar automobile parts — great 
heaps of them — cylinder castings, crank cases, axles. 
Then as things began to get a little bit coherent, along 
would come a train of cars hanging insanely from 
a single overhead rail, the man in the cab tooting his 
shrill whistle; whereupon I would promptly retire into 
mental fog once more, losing all sense of what things 
meant, feeling that I was not in any factory, but in a 

94 



THE M^CENAS OF THE MOTOR 

Gargantuan lunatic asylum where fifteen thousand rav- 
ing, tearing maniacs had been given full authority to 
go ahead and do their damnedest. 

In that entire factory there was for me but one com- 
pletely lucid spot. That was the place where cars were 
being assembled. There I perceived the system. No 
sooner had axle, frame, and wheels been joined to- 
gether than the skeleton thus formed was attached, by 
means of a short wooden coupling, to the rear end of a 
long train of embryonic automobiles, which was kept 
moving slowly forward toward a far-distant door. 
Beside this train of chassis stood a row of men, and as 
each succeeding chassis came abreast of him, each man 
did something to it, bringing it just a little further to- 
ward completion. We walked ahead beside the row of 
moving partially-built cars, and each car we passed 
was a little nearer to its finished state than was the one 
behind it. Just inside the door we paused and watched 
them come successively into first place in the line. As 
they moved up, they were uncoupled. Gasoline was 
fed into them from one pipe, oil from another, water 
from still another. 

Then as a man leaped to the driver's seat, a machine 
situated in the floor spun the back wheels around, caus- 
ing the motor to start ; whereupon the little Ford moved 
out into the wide, wide world, a completed thing, pro- 
pelled by its own power. 

In a glass shed of the size of a small exposition build- 

95 



ABROAD AT HOME 

ing the members of the Ford staff park their Httle cars. 
It was in this shed that we discovered Mr. Ford. He 
had just driven in (in a Ford!) and was standing beside 
it — the god out of the machine. 

"Nine o'clock to-morrow morning," he said to me in 
reply to my request for an appointment. 

I may have shuddered slightly. I know that my com- 
panion shuddered, and that, for one brief instant, I 
felt a strong desire to intimate to Mr. Ford that ten 
o'clock would suit me better. But I restrained my- 
self. 

Inwardly I argued thus: "I am in the presence 
of an amazing man — a prince of industry — the Maecenas 
of the motor car. Here is a man who, they say, makes 
a million dollars a month, even in a short month like 
February. Probably he makes a million and a quarter 
in the thirty-one-day months when he has time to get 
into the spirit of the thing. I wish to pay a beautiful 
tribute to this man, not because he has more money than 
I have — I don't admit that he has — but because he con- 
serves his money better than I conserve mine. It is for 
that that I take off my hat to him, even if I have to get 
up and dress and be away out here on Woodward 
Avenue by 9 a. m. to do it." 

Furthermore, I thought to myself that Mr. Ford was 
the kind of business man you read about in novels ; one 
who, when he says "nine," does n't mean five minutes 
after nine, but nine sharp. If you are n't there your 
chance is gone. You are a ruined man. 

96 




Vi^oDCaH 



Of course there was order in that place, of course there was system — 
relentless system — terrible "efficiency" — Imt to my mind it expressed but one 
thing, and that thing was delirium 






THE M^CENAS OF THE MOTOR 

''Very well," I said, trying to speak in a natural tone, 
"we will be on hand at nine." 

Then he went into the building, and my companion 
and I debated long as to how the feat should be accom- 
plished. He favored sitting up all night in order to be 
safe about it, but we compromised at last on sitting up 
only a little more than half the night. 

The cold, dismal dawn of the day following found us 
shaved and dressed. We went out to the factory. It 
was a long, chilly, expensive, silent taxi ride. At five 
minutes before nine we were there. The factory was 
there. The clerks were there. Fourteen thousand one 
hundred and eighty-seven workmen were there — those 
workmen who divided the ten millions — everything and 
every one was there with a single exception. And that 
exception was Mr. Henry Ford. 

True, he did come at last. True, he talked with us. 
But he was not there at nine o'clock, nor yet at ten. 
Nor do I blame him. For if I were in the place of Mr. 
Henry Ford, there would be just one man whom I should 
meet at nine o'clock, and that man would be Meadows, 
my faithful valet. 

Apropos of that, it occurs to me that there is one point 
of similarity between Mr. Ford and myself: neither of 
us has a valet just at present. Still, on thinking it over, 
we are n't so very much alike, after all, for there is one 
of us — I shan't say which — who hopes to have a valet 
some day. 

Mr. Ford's office is a room somewhat smaller than the 

97 



ABROAD AT HOME 

machine shop. It is situated in one corner of the ad- 
ministration building, and I am told that there is a pri- 
vate entrance, making it unnecessary for Mr. Ford to 
run the gantlet of the main doorway and waiting room, 
where there are almost always persons waiting to ask 
him for a present of a million or so in money ; or, if not 
that, for four or five thousand dollars' worth of time — 
for if Mr. Ford makes what they say, and does n't work 
overtime, his hour is worth about four thousand five 
hundred dollars. 

He was n't in the office when we entered. That gave 
us time to look about. There was a large flat-top desk. 
The floor was covered with an enormous, costly Oriental 
rug. At one end of the room, in a glass case, was a 
tiny and very perfect model of a Ford car. On the walls 
were four photographs : one of Mr. James Couzens, vice- 
president and treasurer of the Ford Company; another, 
a life-size head of ''Your friend, John Wanainaker," and 
two of Thomas A. Edison. Under one of the latter, in 
the handwriting of the inventor — handwriting which, 
oddly enough, resembles nothing so much as neatly bent 
wire — was this inscription: 

To Henry Ford, one of a group of men who have 
helped to make U. S. A. the most progressive na- 
tion in the world. 

Thomas A. Edison. 

Presently Mr. Ford came In — a lean man, of good 

98 



THE M^CENAS OF THE MOTOR 

height, wearing a rather shabby brown suit. Without 
being powerfully built, Mr. Ford looks sinewy, wiry. 
His gait is loose-jointed — almost boyish. His manner, 
too, has something boyish about- it. I got the feeling 
that he was a little bit embarrassed at being interviewed. 
That made me sorry for him — I had been interviewed, 
myself, the day before. When he sat he hunched down 
in his chair, resting on the small of his back, with his 
legs crossed and propped upon a large wooden waste- 
basket — the attitude of a lanky boy. And, despite his 
gray hair and the netted wrinkles about his eyes, his face 
is comparatively youthful, too. His mouth is wide and 
determined, and it is capable of an exceedingly dry grin, 
in which the eyes collaborate. They are fine, keen eyes, 
set high under the brows, wide apart, and they seem to 
express shrewdness, kindliness, humor, and a distinct 
wistfulness. Also, like every other item in Mr. Ford's 
physical make-up, they indicate a high degree of honesty. 
There never was a man more genuine than Mr. Ford. 
He has n't the faintest sign of that veneer so common 
to distinguished men, which is most eloquently described 
by the slang term "front." Nor is he, on the other hand, 
one of those men who (like so many politicians) try to 
simulate a simple manner. He is just exactly Henry 
Ford, no more, no less; take it or leave it. H you are 
any judge at all of character, you know immediately 
that Henry Ford is a man whom you can trust. I 
w^ould trust him with anything. He did n't ask me to, 
but I would. I would trust him with all my money. 

99 



ABROAD AT HOME 

And, considering that I say that, J think he ought to be 
wilHng, in common courtesy, to reciprocate. 

He told us about the Ford business. "We 've done 
two hundred and five-milhons of business to date," he 
said. "Our profits have amounted to about fifty-nine 
milHons. About twenty-five per cent, has been put l^ack 
into the business — into the plant and the branches. All 
the actual cash that was ever put in was twenty-eight 
thousand dollars. The rest has been built up out of 
profits. Yes — it has happened in a pretty short time; 
the big growth has come in the last six years." 

I asked if the rapid increase had surprised him. 

"Oh, in a way," he said. "Of course we could n't be 
just sure what she was going to do. But we figured wc 
had the right idea." 

"What is the idea?" I questioned. 

Then with deep sincerity, with the conviction of a 
man who states the very foundation of all that he be- 
lieves, Mr. Ford told us his idea. His statement did 
not have the awful majesty of an utterance by Mr. 
Freer. He did not flame, although his eyes did seem to 
glow with his conviction. 

"It is one model!" he said. "That 's the secret of the 
whole doggone thing!" (That is exactly what he said. 
I noted it immediately for "character.") 

Having revealed the "secret," Mr. Ford directed our 
attention to the little toy Ford in the glass case. 

"There she is," he said. "She 's always the same. I 
tell everybody that 's the way to make a success. Every 

lOO 



THE M^CENAS OF THE MOTOR 

manufacturer ought to do it. The thing is to find out 
something that everybody is after and then make that 
one thing and nothing else. Shoemakers ought to do it. 
They ought to get one kind of shoe that will suit every- 
body, instead of making all kinds. Stove men ought to 
do it, too. I told a stove man that just the other day." 

That, I believe, is, briefly, the business philosophy of 
Henry Ford. 

"It just amounts to specializing," he continued. 'T 
like a good specialist. I like Harry Lauder — he 's a 
great specialist. So is Edison. Edison has done more 
for people than any other living man. You can't look 
anywhere without seeing something he has invented. 
Edison does n't care anything about money. I don't 
either. You 've got to have money to use, that 's all. 
I have n't got any job here, you know. I just go around 
and keep the fellows lined up." 

I don't know how I came by the idea, but I was con- 
scious of the thought that Mr. Ford's money worried 
him. He looks somehow as though it did. And it must, 
coming in such a deluge and so suddenly. I asked if 
wealth had not compelled material changes in his mode 
of Hfe. 

"Do you mean the way we live at home?" he asked. 

"Yes; that kind of thing." 

"Oh, that has n't changed to any great extent," he 
said. "I Ve got a little house over here a ways. It 's 
nothing very much — just comfortable. It 's all we need. 
You can have the man drive you around there on your 

lOI 



ABROAD AT HOME 

way back if you want. You '11 see." (Later I did see; 
it is a very pleasant, very simple type of brick suburban 
residence. ) 

"Do you get up early?" I ventured, having, as I have 
already intimated, my own ideas as to what I should do 
if I were a Henry Ford. 

"Well, I was up at quarter of seven this morning," he 
declared. "I went for a long ride in my car. I usually 
get down to the plant around eight-thirty or nine 
o'clock." 

Then I asked if the change had not forced him to do 
a deal of entertaining. 

"No," he said. "We know the same people we knew 
twenty years ago. They are our friends to-day. They 
come to our house. The main difference is that Mrs. 
Ford used to do the cooking. Lately we 've kept a cook. 
Cooks try to give me fancy food, but I won't stand for 
it. They can't cook as well as Mrs. Ford either — none 
of them can." 

I wish you could have heard him say that! It was 
one of his deep convictions, like the "one model" idea. 

"What are your hobbies outside your business?" I 
asked him. 

It seemed to me that Mr. Ford looked a little doubtful 
about that. Certainly his manner, in replying, lacked 
that animation which you expect of a golfer or a yachts- 
man or an art collector — or, for the matter of that, a 
postage-stamp collector. 

"Oh, I have my farm out at Dearborn — the place 

102 



THE M^CENAS OF THE MOTOR 

where I was born," he replied. 'T 'm building a house 
out there — not as much of a house as they try to make 
out, though. And I 'm interested in birds, too." 

Then, thinking of Mr. Freer, I inquired: ''Do you 
care for art?" 

The answer, like all the rest, was definite enough. 

'T would n't give five cents for all the art in the 
world," said Mr. Ford without a moment's hesitation. 

I admired him enormously for saying that. So many 
people feel as he does in their hearts, yet would not dare 
to say so. So many people have the air of posturing 
before a work of art, trying to look intelligent, trying to 
"say the right thing" before the right painting — the 
right painting as prescribed by Baedeker. True, I think 
the man who declares he would not give five cents for 
all the art in the world thereby declares himself a bar- 
barian of sorts. But a good, honest, open-hearted bar- 
barian is a fine creature. For one thing, there is nothing 
false about him. And there is nothing soft about him 
either. It is the poseur who is soft — soft at the very 
top, where Henry Ford is hard. 

I saw from his manner that he was becoming restless. 
Perhaps we had stayed too long. Or perhaps he was 
bored because I spoke about an abstract thing like art. 

I asked but one more question. 

"Mr. Ford," I said, "I should think that when a man 
is very rich he might hardly know, sometimes, whether 
people are really his friends or whether they are culti- 
vating him because of his money. Isn't that so?" 

103 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Mr. Ford's dry grin spread across his face. He re- 
plied with a question: 

"When people come after yon because they want to 
get something out of you, don't you get their number?" 

"I think I do," I answered. 

"Well, so do I," said Mr. Ford. 



104 



CHAPTER VIII 
THE CURIOUS CITY OF BATTLE CREEK 

IT was on a chilly morning-, not much after eight 
o'clock, that we left Detroit. I recall that, driv- 
ing trainward, I closed the window of the taxicab; 
that the marble waiting room of the new station looked 
uncomfortably half awake, like a sleeper who has kicked 
the bedclothes off, and that the concrete platform out- 
side was a playground for cold, boisterous gusts of 
wind. 

Our train had come from somewhere else. Entering 
the Pullman car, we found it in its nightime aspect. 
The narrow aisle, made narrower by its shroud of 
long green curtains, and by shoes and suit cases stand- 
ing beside the berths, looked cavernous and gloomy, re- 
minding me of a great rock fissure, the entrance to a 
cave I had once seen. Like a cave, too, it was cold with 
a musty and oppressive cold ; a cold which embalmed the 
mingling smells of sleep and sleeping car — an odor as of 
Russia leather and banana peel ground into a damp 
pulp. 

Silently, gloomily, without removing our overcoats 
or gloves, we seated ourselves, gingerly, upon the bright 
green plush of the section nearest to the door, and tried 

105 



ABROAD AT HOME 

to read our morning papers. Presently the train 
started. A thin, sick-looking Pullman conductor came 
and took our tickets, saying as few words as possible. 
A porter, in his sooty canvas coat, sagged miserably 
down the aisle. Also a waiter from the dining car, an- 
nouncing breakfast in a cheerless tone. Breakfast! 
Who could think of breakfast in a place like that? 
For a long time, we sat in somber silence, without in- 
terest in each other or in life. 

To appreciate the full horror of a Pullman sleeping 
car it is not necessary to pass the night upon it ; indeed, 
it is necessary not to. If you have slept in the car, or 
tried to sleep, you arise with blunted faculties — the 
night has mercifully anesthetized you against the scenes 
and smells of morning. But if you board the car as we 
did, coming into it awake and fresh from out of doors, 
while it is yet asleep — then, and then only, do you real- 
ize its enormous ghastliness. 

Our first diversion — the faintest shadow of a specula- 
tive interest — came with a slight stirring of the curtains 
of the berth across the way. For, even in the most 
dismal sleeping car, there is always the remote chance, 
when those green curtains stir, that the Queen of Sheba 
is all radiant within, and that she will presently appear, 
like sunrise. 

Over our newspapers we watched, and even now and 
then our curiosity was piqued by further gentle stirrings 
of the curtains. And, of course, the longer we were 
forced to wait, the more hopeful we became. In a low 

io6 



THE CURIOUS CITY OF BATTLE CREEK 

voice I murmured to my companion the story of the 
glorious creature I had seen in a PuUman one morning 
long ago: how the curtains had stirred at first, even as 
these were stirring now; how they had at last been 
parted by a pair of rosy finger tips; how I had seen a 
lovely face emerge; how her two braids were wrapped 
about her classic head; how she had floated forth into 
the aisle, transforming the whole car; how she had 
wafted past me, a soft, sweet cloud of pink; how she — 
Then, just as I was getting to the interesting part of it, 
I stopped and caught my breath. The curtains were in 
final, violent commotion! They were parting at the 
bottom! Ah! Slowly, from between the long green 
folds, there appeared a foot. No filmy silken stocking 
covered it. It was a foot. There was an ankle, too — 
a small ankle. Indeed, it was so small as to be a mis- 
fit, for the foot was of stupendous size, and very knobby. 
Also it was cold ; I knew that it was cold, just as I knew 
that it was attached to the body of a man, and that I did 
not wish to see the rest of him. I turned my head and, 
gazing from the window, tried to concentrate my 
thoughts upon the larger aspects of the world outside, 
but the picture of that foot remained with me, dwarfing 
all other things. 

I did not mean to look again; I was determined not 
to look. But at the sound of more activity across the 
way, my head was turned as by some outside force, and 
I did look, as one looks, against one's will, at some hor- 
ror which has happened in the street. 

107 



ABROAD AT HOME 

He had come out. He was sitting upon the edge of 
his berth, bending over and snorting as he fumbled for 
his shoes upon the floor. Having secured them, he 
pulled them on with great contortions, emitting ster- 
torous sounds. Then, in all the glory of his brown 
balbriggan undershirt, he stood up in the aisle. His 
face was fat and heavy, his eyes half closed, his hair 
in towsled disarray. His trousers sagged dismally 
about his hips, and his suspenders dangled down behind 
him like two feeble and insensate tails. After rolling 
his collar, necktie, shirt, and waistcoat into a mournful 
little bundle, he produced from inner recesses a few un- 
pleasant toilet articles, and made off down the car — a 
spectacle compared with which a homely woman, her 
face anointed with cold cream, her hair done in kid 
curlers, her robe a Canton-flannel nightgown, would 
appear alluring! 

Never, since then, have I heard men jeering over 
women as they look in dishabille, without wondering if 
those same men have ever seen themselves clearly in the 
mirrored washroom of a sleeping car. 



On the railroad journey between Detroit and Bat- 
tle Creek we passed two towns which have attained a 
fame entirely disproportionate to their size: Ann Ar- 
bor, with about fifteen thousand inhabitants, celebrated 
as a seat of learning; and Ypsilanti, with about six thou- 
sand, celebrated as, so to speak, a seat of underwear. 

1 08 



THE CURIOUS CITY OF BATTLE CREEK 

One expects an important college town to be well 
known, but a manufacturing town with but six thou- 
sand inhabitants must have done something in particu- 
lar to have acquired national reputation. In the case 
of Ypsilanti it has been done by magazine advertising — 
the advertising of underwear. If you don't think so, 
look over the list of towns in the "World Almanac." 
Have you, for example, ever heard of Anniston, Ala.? 
Or Argenta, Ark. ? Either town is about twice the size 
of Ypsilanti. Have you ever heard of Cranston, R. I. ; 
Butler, Pa., or Belleville, 111.? Each is about as large 
as Ypsilanti and Ann Arbor put together. 

Then there is Battle Creek. Think of the amount of 
advertising that town has had! As Miss Daisy Buck, 
the lady who runs the news stand in the Battle Creek 
railroad station, said to us : "It 's the best advertised 
little old town of its size in the whole United States." 

And now it is about to be advertised some more. 



We were total strangers. We knew nothing of the 
place save that we had heard that it was full of health 
cranks and factories where breakfast foods, coffee sub- 
stitutes, and kindred edibles and drinkables were made. 
How to see the town and what to see we did not know. 
We hesitated in the depot waiting room. Then fortune 
guided our footsteps to the station news stand and its 
genial and vivacious hostess. Yes, hostess is the word ; 
Miss Buck is anything but a mere girl behind the 

IC9 



ABROAD AT HOME 

counter. She is a reception committee, an information 
bureau, a guide, philosopher, and friend. Her kindly 
interest in the wayfarer seems to waft forth from the 
precincts of the news stand and permeate the station. 
All the boys know Miss Daisy Buck. 

After purchasing some stamps and post cards as a 
means of getting into conversation with her, we asked 
about the town. 

''How many people are there here?" I ventured. 

"Thirty-five," replied Miss Buck. 

"Thirty-five F" I repeated, astonished. 

Though Miss Buck was momentarily engaged in sell- 
ing chewing gum (to some one else), she found time to 
give me a mildly pitying look. 

"Thousand," she added. 

The "World Almanac" gives Battle Creek but twenty- 
five thousand population. That, however, is no re- 
proach to Miss Buck; it is, upon the contrary, a re- 
proach to the cold-hearted statisticians who compiled 
that book. And had they met Miss Buck I think they 
would have been more liberal. 

"What is the best way for us to see the town?" I asked 
the lady. 

She indicated a man who was sitting on a station 
bench near by, saying : 

"He 's a driver. He '11 take you. He likes to ride 
around." 

"Thanks," I replied, gallantly. "Any friend of 

yoiirs — " 

no 



THE CURIOUS CITY OF BATTLE CREEK 

''Can that stuff," admonished Miss Buck in her easy, 
offhand manner. 

I canned it, and engaged the driver. His vehicle was 
a typical town hack — a mud-colored chariot, having C 
springs, sunken cushions, and a strong smell of the 
stable. Riding in it, I could not rid myself of the idea 
that I was being driven to a country burial, and that 
hence, if I wished to smoke, I ought to do it surrepti- 
tiously. 

Presently we swung into Main Street. I did not 
ask the name of the street, but I am reasonably cer- 
tain that is it. There was a policeman on the corner. 
Also, a building bearing the sign "Old National 
Bank." 

Old! What a pleasant, mellow ring the word has! 
How fine, and philosophical, and prosperous, and hos- 
pitable it sounds. I stopped the carriage. Just out of 
sentiment I thought I would go in and have a check 
cashed. But they did not act hospitable at all. They 
refused to cash my check because they did not know 
me. Well, it was their loss! I had a little treat pre- 
pared for them. I meant to surprise them by making 
them realize suddenly that, in cashing the check, they 
were not merely obliging an obscure stranger but a fa- 
mous literary man. I was going to pass the check 
through the window, saying modestly: *Tt may in- 
terest you to know whose check you have the honor of 
handling." Then they would read the name, and I 
could picture their excitement as they exclaimed and 

III 



ABROAD AT HOME 

showed the check around the bank so that the clerks 
could see it. The only trouble I foresaw, on that score, 
was that probably they had not ever heard of me. But 
I was going to obviate that. I intended to sign the 
check "Rudyard Kipling." That would have given 
them something to think about ! 

But, as I have said, the transaction never got that 
far. 

The principal street of Battle Creek may be with- 
out amazing architectural beauty, but it is at least 
well lighted. On either curb is a row of "boulevard 
lights," the posts set fifty feet apart. They are good- 
looking posts, too, of simple, graceful design, each sur- 
mounted by a cluster of five white globes. This ad- 
mirable system of lighting is in very general use 
throughout all parts of the country excepting the East. 
It is used in all the Michigan cities I visited. I have 
been told that it was first installed in Minneapolis, but 
wherever it originated, it is one of a long list of things 
the East may learn from the West. 

After driving about for a time we drew up. Looking 
out, I came to the conclusion that we had returned again 
to the railway station. 

It was a station, but not the same one. 

'This is the Grand Trunk Deepo," said the driver, 
opening the carriage door. 

'T don't believe we '11 bother to get out," I said, 

But the driver wanted us to, 

113 




Never, since then, have I heard men jeering over women as they 
look in dishabille, without wondering if those same men have ever 
seen themselves clearly in the mirrored washroom of a sleeping car 



i 



THE CURIOUS CITY OF BATTLE CREEK 

''You ought to look at it," he insisted. "It 's a very 
pretty station." 

So we got out and looked at it, and were glad we 
did, for the driver was quite right. It was an unusu- 
ally pretty station — a station superior to the other in 
all respects but one: it contained no Miss Daisy 
Buck. 

After some further driving, we returned to the sta- 
tion where she was. 

'T suppose we had better go to the Sanitarium for 
lunch?" I asked her. 

''Not on your life," she replied. "If you go to the 
'San,' you won't feel like you 'd had anything to eat — 
that is, not if you 're good feeders." 

"Where else is there to go?" I asked. 

"The Tavern," she advised. "You '11 get a first- 
class dinner there. You might have larger hotels in 
New York, but you have n't got any that 's more home- 
like. At least, that 's what I hear. I never was in 
New York myself, but I get the dope from the traveling 
men." 

However, not for epicurean reasons, but because of 
curiosity, we wished to try a meal at the Sanitarium. 
Thither we drove in the hack, passing on our way the 
office of the "Good Health Publishing Company" and a 
small building bearing the sign, "The Coffee Parlor" — 
which may signify a Battle Creek substitute for a 
saloon. I do not know how coffee drinkers are re- 
garded in that town, but I do know that, while there, I 

"3 



ABROAD AT HOME 

got neither tea nor coffee — unless 'Tostum" be coffee 
and ''Kaffir Tea" be tea. 

It was at the Sanitarium that I drank Kaffir Tea. I 
had it with my lunch. It looks like tea, and would prob- 
ably taste like it, too, if they did n't let the Kaffirs steep 
so long. But they should use only fresh, young, tender 
Kaffirs; the old ones get too strong; they have too much 
bouquet. The one they used in my tea may have been 
slightly spoiled. I tasted him all afternoon. 

The "San" is an enormous brick building like a vast 
summer hotel. It has an office which is utterly hotel- 
like, too, even to the chairs, scattered about, and the 
people sitting in them. Many of the people look per- 
fectly well. Indeed, I saw one young woman who 
looked so well that I could n't take my eyes off from her 
while she remained in view. She was in the elevator 
when we went up to lunch. She looked at me with a 
speculative eye — a most engaging eye, it was — as 
though saying to herself : "Now there 's a promising 
young man. I might make it interesting for him if 
he would stay here for a while. But of course he 'd 
have to show me a physician's certificate stating that 
he was not subject to fits." My companion said that 
she looked at him a long while, too, but I doubt 
that. He was always claiming that they looked at 
him. 

The people who run the Sanitarium are Seventh-Day 
Adventists, and as we arrived on Saturday it was the 
Sabbath there — a rather busy day, I take it, from the 

114 



THE CURIOUS CITY OF BATTLE CREEK 

bulletin which was printed upon the back of the din- 
ner menu: 

7.20 A. M. Morning Worship in the Parlor. 
7.40 to 8.40 A. M. BREAKFAST. 
9.45 A. M. Sabbath School in the Chapel. 
II A. M. Preaching Service in the Chapel. 
12.30 to 2 p. M. DINNER. 
3.30 p. M. Missionary talk. 
5.30 to 6 p. M. Cashier's ofifice open. 
6 to 6.45 p. M. SUPPER. 

6.45 p. M. March for guests and patients only. 
8 p. M. In the Gymnasium. Basket Ball Game. Admission 
25 cents. 

No food to be taken from the Dining Room. 

The last injunction was not disobeyed by us. We 
ate enough to satisfy our curiosity, and what we did not 
eat we left. 

The menu at the Sanitarium is a curious thing. 
After each item are figures showing the proportion of 
proteins, fats, and carbohydrates contained in that ar- 
ticle of food. Everything is weighed out exactly. 
There was no meat on the bill of fare, but substitutes 
were provided in the list of entrees: "Protose with 
Mayonnaise Dressing," ^'Nuttolene with Cranberry 
Sauce," and ''Walnut Roast." 

Suppose you had to decide between those three which 
would you take? 

My companion took 'Trotose," while I elected for 
some reason to dally with the "Nuttolene." Then, 
neither of us liking what we got, we both tried 'Wal- 

115 



ABROAD AT HOME 

nut Roast." Even then we would not give up. I or- 
dered a little "Malt Honey," while my companion called 
for a baked potato, saying: 'T know what a potato is, 
anyhow !" 

After that we had a little "Toasted Granose" and 
"Good Health Biscuit," washed down in my case by a 
gulp or two of "Kaffir Tea," and in his by "Hot Malted 
Nuts." I tried to get him to take "Kaffir Tea" with 
me, but, being to leeward of my cup, he declined. As 
nearly as we could figure it out afterward, he was far 
ahead of me in proteins and fats, but I was infinitely 
richer in carbohydrates. In our indigestions we stood 
absolutely even. 

There are some very striking things about the Sani- 
tarium. It is a great headquarters for Health Con- 
gresses, Race Betterment Congresses, etc., and at these 
congresses strange theories are frequently put forth. 
At one of them, recently held, Dr. J. H. Kellogg, head 
of the Sanitarium, read a paper in which, according to 
newspaper reports, he advocated "human stock shows," 
with blue ribbons for the most perfectly developed men 
and women. At the same meeting a Mrs. Holcome 
charged that: "Cigarette-smoking heroes in the mod- 
ern magazine are, I believe, inserted into the stories by 
the editors of publications controlled by the big in- 
terests." 

To this Mr. S. S. McClure, the publisher, replied: 
"I have never inserted cigarettes in heroes' mouths. I 

ii6 




"Can that stuff," admonished Miss Buck in her easy, offhand manner 



THE CURIOUS CITY OF BATTLE CREEK 

have taken them out lots of times. But generally the 
authors use a pipe for their heroes." 

There was talk, too, about "eugenic weddings." 
And a sensation was caused when a Southern college 
professor made a charge that graduates of modern 
women's colleges are unfitted for motherhood. The 
statement, it may be added, was vigorously denied by 
the heads of several leading women's colleges. 

Rather wild, some of this, it seems to me. But when 
people gather together in one place, intent on some one 
subject, wildness is almost certain to develop. One 
feels, in visiting the Sanitarium, that, though many peo- 
ple may be restored to health there, there is yet an air of 
mild fanaticism over all. Health fanaticism. The 
passionate light of the health hunt flashes in the 
stranger's eye as he looks at you and wonders what is 
wrong with you. And whatever may be wrong with 
you, or with him, you are both there to shake it off. 
That is your sole business in life. You are going to 
get over it, even if you have to live for weeks on "Nut- 
tolene" or other products of the diet kitchen. 

"Nuttolene!" 

It is always an experience for the sophisticated palate 
to meet a brand-new taste. In "Nuttolene" my palate 
encountered one, and before dinner was over it met sev- 
eral more. 

*'Nuttolene" is served in a slab, resembling, as nearly 
as anything I can think of, a good-sized piece of shoe- 
maker's wax. In flavor it is confusing. Some faint 

117 



ABROAD AT HOME 

taste about it hinted that it was intended to resemble 
turkey; an impression furthered by the fact that cran- 
berry sauce was served on the same plate. But what it 
was made of I could not detect. It was not unpleas- 
ant to taste, nor yet did I find it appetizing. Rather, I 
should classify it in the broad category of uninteresting 
food. However, after such a statement, it is but fair to 
add that the food I find most interesting is almost al- 
ways rich and indigestible. Perhaps, therefore, I shall 
be obliged to go to Battle Creek some day, to subsist on 
*'Nuttolene" and kindred substances as penance for my 
gastronomic indiscretions. Better men than I have 
done that thing — men and women from all over the 
globe. And Battle Creek has benefitfed them. Never- 
theless, I hope that I shall never have to go there. My 
feeling about the place, quite without regard to the cures 
which it effects, is much like that of my companion : 

At luncheon I asked him to save his menu for me, 
so that I might have the data for this article. He put 
it in his pocket. But he kept pulling it out again, every 
little while, throughout the afternoon, and suggesting 
that I copy it all off into my notebook. 

Finally I said to him : 

'What is the use in my copying all that stuff when 
you have it right there in print? Just keep it for me. 
Then, when I get to writing, I will take it and use what 
I want." 

''But I 'd rather not keep it," he insisted. 

"Why not?" 

ii8 



THE CURIOUS CITY OF BATTLE CREEK 

"Well, there might be a railroad wreck. If I 'm killed 
I don't want this thing to be found on me. When they 
went through my clothes and ran across this they 'd say : 
'Oh, this does n't matter. It 's all right. He 's just 
some poor boob that 's been to Battle Creek.' " 



When we got out of the hack at the station before 
leaving Battle Creek, I asked the hackman how the town 
got its name. He did n't know. So, after buying the 
tickets, I went and asked Miss Daisy Buck. 

'T suppose," I said, "there was some battle here, be- 
side some creek, wasn't there?" 

But for once Miss Buck failed me. 

"You can search me," she replied. Then: "Did 
you lunch at the 'San'?" 

We admitted it. 

"How did you like it?" 

We informed her. 

"What did you eat — Mercerized hay?" 

"No; mostly Nuttolene." 

She sighed. Then: 

"What town are you making next?" she asked. 

"Kalamazoo," I said. 

"Oh, Ka'zoo, eh? What line are you gen'l'men 
travelling in?" 

"I 'm a writer," I replied, "and my friend here is an 
artist. We 're going around the country gathering ma- 
terial for a book." 

119 



ABROAD AT HOME 

In answer to this statement, Miss Buck simply winked 
one eye as one who would say : "You 're some little liar, 
ain't you?" 

"It 's true," I said. 

*'0h, sure!" said Miss Buck, and let one eyelid fall 
again. 

"When the book appears," I continued, "you will find 
that it contains an interview with you." 

"Also a picture of you and the news stand," my com- 
panion added. 

Then we heard the train. 

Taking up our suit cases, we thanked Miss Buck for 
the assistance she had rendered us. 

"I 'm sure you 're quite welcome," she replied. "I 
meet all kinds here — including kidders." 

That was some months ago. No doubt Miss Buck 
may have forgotten us by now. But when she sees 
this — as, being a news-stand lady, I have reason to hope 
she will — I trust she may remember, and admit that 
truth has triumphed in the end. 



T20 



CHAPTER IX 
KALAMAZOO 

I HAD but one reason for visiting- Kalamazoo: the 
name has always fascinated me with its zoologi- 
cal suggestion and even more with its rich, 
rhythmic measure. Indian names containing "K's" are 
almost always striking: Kenosha, Kewanee, Kokomo, 
Keokuk, Kankakee. Of these, the last two, having 
the most "K's" are most effective. Next comes 
Kokomo with two "K's." But Kalamazoo, though it 
has but one ''K," seems to me to take first place among 
them all, phonetically, because of the finely assorted 
sound contained in its four syllables. There is a kick 
in its ''K," a ring in its "L," a buzz in its "Z," and a 
glorious hoot in its two final "O's." 

I wish here to protest against the abbreviated title, 
frequently bestowed upon the town by newspapers in 
Detroit and other neighboring cities. They call it 
"Ka'zoo." 

Ka'zoo, indeed ! For shame ! How can men take so 
fine a name and treat it lightly ? True, it is a little long 
for easy handling in a headline, but that does not justify 
indignity. If headline writers cannot handle it con- 
veniently they should not change the name, but rather 

121 



ABROAD AT HOME 

change their type, or make-up. If I owned a newspa- 
per, and there arose a question of giving space to this 
majestic name, I should cheerfully drop out a baseball 
story, or the love letters in some divorce case, or even 
an advertisement, in order to display it as it deserves to 
be displayed. 

Kalamazoo (I love to write it out!) Kalamazoo, I 
say, is also sometimes known familiarly as "Celery 
Town" — the growing of this crisp and succulent vege- 
table being a large local industry. Also, I was in- 
formed, more paper is made there than in any other city 
in the world. I do not know if that is true. I only 
know that if there is not more something in Kalamazoo 
than there is in any other city, the place is unique in my 
experience. 

From my own observations, made during an evening 
walk through the agreeable, tree-bordered streets of 
Kalamazoo, I should have said that it led in quite a dif- 
ferent field. I have never been in any town where so 
many people failed to draw their window shades, or 
owned green reading lamps, or sat by those green- 
shaded lamps and read. I looked into almost every 
house I passed, and in all but two, I think, I saw the self- 
same picture of calm, literary domesticity. 

One family, living in a large and rather new-looking 
house on Main Street, did not seem to be at home. The 
shades were up but no one was sitting by the lamp. 
And, more, the lamp itself was different. Instead of a 
plain green shade it had a shade with pictures in the 

122 



KALAMAZOO 

glass, and red bead fringe. Later I found out where 
the people were. They were playing bridge across the 
street. They must have been the people from that 
house, because there were two in all the other houses, 
whereas there were four in the house where bridge was 
being played. 

I stood and watched them. The woman from across 
the street — being the guest, she was in evening dress — 
was dummy. She was sitting back stiffly, her mouth 
pursed, her eyes staring at the cards her partner played. 
And she was saying to herself (and, unconsciously, to 
us, through the window) : "If / had played that hand, 
I never should have done it that way!" 



Kalamazoo has a Commercial Club. What place 
hasn't? And the Commercial Club has issued a book- 
let. What Commercial Club has n't ? This one bears 
the somewhat fanciful title "The Lure of Kalamazoo." 

"The Lure of Kalamazoo" is written in that peculi- 
arly chaste style characteristic of Chamber of Com- 
merce "literature" — a style comparable only with that 
of railway folders and summer hotel booklets. It 
is the "Here-all-nature-seems-to-be-rejoicing" school. 
Let me present an extract : 

Kalamazoo is peculiarly a city of homes — homes varying in 
cost from the modest cottage of the laborer to the palatial house 
of the wealthy manufacturer. 

The only place in which the man who wrote that 

123 



ABROAD AT HOME 

slipped up, was in referring to the wealthy manufac- 
turer's "house." Obviously the word called for there 
is "mansion." However, in justice to this man, and to 
Kalamazoo, I ought to add that the town seemed to be 
rather free from "mansions." That is one of the pleas- 
antest things about it. It is just a pretty, unpretentious 
place. Perhaps he actually meant to say "house," but 
I doubt it. I think he missed a trick. I think he failed 
to get the right word, just as if he had been writing 
about brooks, and had forgotten to say "purling." 

But if I saw no "mansions," I did see one building in 
Kalamazoo the architecture of which was distinguished. 
That was the building of the Western Michigan Nor- 
mal School — a long, low structure of classical design, 
with three fine porticos. 

Haying a Commercial Club, Kalamazoo quite natu- 
rally has a "slogan," too. (A "slogan," by the way, is 
the war cry or gathering cry of a Highland clan — 1)ut 
that makes no difference to a Commercial Club.) It 
is: 'Tn Kalamazoo We Do." 

This battle cry "did" very well up to less than a year 
ago; then it suddenly began to languish. There was a 
company in Kalamazoo called the Michigan Buggy 
Company, and this company had a very sour failure 
last year, their figures varying from fact to the extent 
of about a million and a half dollars. Not satisfied 
with dummy accounts and padded statements, they had, 
also, what was called a "velvet pay roll." And, when 

124 




She was saying to herself (and, unconsciously, to us. through the window) 
'If / had played that hand, I never should have done it tliat way !" 



KALAMAZOO 

it all blew up, the whole of Michigan was shaken by the 
shock. Since that time, I am informed, the ''slogan" 
''In Kalamazoo We Do" has not been in high favor. 



Among the "lures" presented in the Commercial 
Club's booklet are four hundred and fifty-six lakes 
within a radius of fifty miles of the city. I did n't 
count the lakes myself. I did n't count the people 
either — not all of them. 

The "World Almanac" gives the population of the 
place as just under forty thousand, but some one in 
Kalamazoo — and I think he was a member of the Com- 
mercial Club — told me that fifty thousand was the cor- 
rect figure. 

Now, I ask you, is it not reasonable to suppose that 
the Commercial Club, being right in Kalamazoo, where 
it can count the people every day, should be more ac- 
curate in its figures than the Almanac, which is pub- 
hshed in far-away New York? Errors like this on the 
part of the Almanac might be excused, once or twice, 
on the ground of human fallibility or occasional mis- 
print, but when the Almanac keeps on cutting down the 
figures given by the Commercial Clubs and Chambers 
of Commerce of town after town, it begins to look like 
wilful misrepresentation if not actual spitework. 

That, to tell the truth, was the reason I walked 
around and looked in all the windows. I decided to 
get at the bottom of this matter — to find out the cause 

125 



ABROAD AT HOME 

for these discrepancies, and if I caught the Ahiianac in 
what appeared to be a dehberate He, to expose it, here. 
With this in view, I started to count the people myself. 
Unfortunately, however, I did not start early enough 
in the evening. When I had only a little more than 
half of them counted, they began to put out their lights 
and go upstairs to bed. And, oddly enough, though 
they leave their parlor shades up, they have a way of 
drawing those in their bedrooms. I was, therefore, 
forced to stop counting. 

I do not attempt to explain this Kalamazoo custom 
with regard to window shades. All I can say is that, 
for whatever reason they follow it, their custom is not 
metropolitan. New Yorkers do things just the other 
way around. They pull down their parlor shades, but 
leave their bedroom shades up. Any one who has lived 
in a New York apartment house in summer can testify 
to that. Probably it is all accounted for by the fact 
that in a relatively small city, like Kalamazoo, the cen- 
sus takers go around and count the people in the early 
evening, whereas in New York it is necessary for those 
who make the reckoning to work all night in order to — 
as one might say — get all the figures. 



126 



1 



CHAPTER X 
GRAND RAPIDS THE "ELECT" 

I KNOW a man whose wife is famous for her cook- 
ing. That is a strange thing for a prosperous 
and charming woman to be famous for to-day, but 
it is true. When they wish to give their friends an 
especial treat, the wife prepares the dinner; and it is a 
treat, from "pigs in blankets" to strawberry shortcake. 

The husband is proud of his wife's cooking, but I 
have often noticed, and not without a mikl amusement, 
that when we praise it past a certain point he begins to 
protest that there are lots of other things that she can 
do. You might think then, if you did not understand 
him, that he was belittling her talent as a cook. 

"Oh, yes," he says, in what he intends to be a casual 
tone, "she can cook very well. But that 's not all. 
She 's the best mother I ever saw — sees right into the 
children, just as though she were one of them. She 
makes most of their clothes, too. And in spite of all 
that, she keeps up her playing — both piano and harp. 
We '11 get her to play the harp after dinner." 

People are like that about the cities that they live in. 
They are like that in Detroit. They are afraid that in 
considering the vastness of the automobile industry, 
you '11 overlook the fact that Detroit has a lot of other 

127 



ABROAD AT HOME 

business. And in Grand Rapids they 're the same ; 
only there, of course, it 's furniture. 

"Yes," they say almost with reluctance, "we do make 
a good deal of furniture, but we also have big printing 
plants and plaster mills, and a large business in automo- 
bile accessories, and the metal trades." 

They talked that way to me. But I kept right on 
asking about furniture, just as, when the young husband 
talks to me about his wife's harp playing, I keep right 
on eating shortcake. That is no reflection on her mu- 
sic (or her arms!); it is simply a tribute to her cook- 
ing. 

Grand Rapids is one of those exceedingly agreeable, 
homelike American cities, which has not yet grown to 
the unwieldy size. It is the kind of city of which they 
say: "Every one here knows every one else" — mean- 
ing, of course, that members of the older and more 
prosperous families enjoy all the advantages and dis- 
advantages of a considerable intimacy. 

To the visitor — especially the visitor from New 
York, where a close friend may be bedridden a month 
without one's knowing it — this sort of thing makes a 
strong appeal at first. You feel that these people see 
one another every day; that they know all about one 
another, and like one another in spite of that. It is 
nice to see them troop down to the station, fifteen 
strong, to see somebody off, and it must be nice to be seen 
off like that; it must make you feel sure that you have 

128 



GRAND RAPIDS THE "ELECT" 

friends — a point upon which the New Yorker, in his 
heart, has the gravest doubts. 

Consider, for example, my own case. In the course 
of my residence in New York, I have lived in four dif- 
ferent apartment houses. In only two of these have I 
had even the slightest acquaintance with any of the 
other tenants. Once I called upon some disagreeable 
people on the floor below who had complained about the 
noise; once I had summoned a doctor who lived on the 
ground floor. In the other two buildings I knew abso- 
lutely no one. I used to see occasionally, in the elevator 
of one building, a man with whom I was accjuainted 
years ago, but he had either forgotten me in the interim, 
or he elected to do as I did; that is, to pretend he had 
forgotten. I had nothing against him; he had nothing 
against me. We were simply bored at the idea of talk- 
ing with each other because we had nothing in common. 

Any New Yorker who is honest will admit to you 
that he has had that same experience. He passes peo- 
ple on the street — and sometimes they are people he has 
known quite well in times gone by — yet he refrains 
from bowing to them, and they refrain from bowing to 
him, by a sort of tacit understanding that bowing, even, 
is a bore. 

That is a sad sort of situation. But sadder yet is 
the fact that in New York we lose sight of so many peo- 
ple whom we should like to see — friends of whom we 
are genuinely fond, but whose evolutions in the whirl- 
pool of the city's life are such that we don't chance to 

129 



ABROAD AT HOME 

come in contact with them. At first we try. We pad- 
dle toward them now and then. But the very act of 
paddHng is fatiguing, so by and by we give it up, and 
either never see them any more, or, running across 
them, once in a year or two, on the street or in a shop, 
lament at the broken intimacy, and make new resolves, 
only to see them melt away again in the flux and flow 
of New York life. 

I thought of all this at a Sunday evening supper party 
in Grand Rapids — a neighborhood supper party at 
which a dozen or more people of assorted ages sat 
around a hospitable table, arguing, explaining, laugh- 
ing, and chafling each other like members of one great 
glorious family. It made me want to go and live there, 
too. Then I began to wonder how long I 'd really want 
to live there. Would I always want to? Or would I 
grow tired of that, just as I grow tired of the contrast- 
ing coldness of New York? In short, I wondered to 
myself which is the worst: to know your neighbors 
with a wonderful, terrible, all-revealing intimacy, or — 
not to know them at all. I have thought about it often, 
and still I am not sure. 

The Grand Rapids "Press" fearing that I might fail to 
notice certain underlying features of Grand Rapids life, 
printed an editorial at the time of my visit, in which at- 
tention was called to certain things. Said the "Press" : 

It is n't immediately revealed to the stranger that this is one 
of the clearest-thinking communities in the country. The rec- 

130 



GRAND RAPIDS THE "ELECT" 

ords of the public library show the local demand for books on 
sociology, on political economy, on the relations of labor and cap- 
ital, on taxation, on art, on the literature that has some chance 
of permanency. The topics discussed in the lecture halls, in the 
social centers, and in the Sunday gatherings, which are so pro- 
nounced a feature of church life here, add to the testimony. 
Ida M. Tarbell noticed that on her first visit. Her impression 
deepened on her second. . . . Without tossing any bouquets at 
ourselves it can be said that we are thinking some thoughts 
which only the elect in other cities dream of thinking. 

I should like to make some intelligent comment on 
this. I feel, indeed, that something very ponderous, 
and solemn, and authoritative, and learned, and wise, 
and owlish, and erudite, ought to be said. 

But the trouble is that I am utterly unqualified to 
speak in that way. I am not one of the elect. If some 
one called me that, I would knock him down if I could, 
and kick him full of holes. That is because I think that 
the elect almost invariably elect themselves. They are 
intellectual Huertas, and as such I generally detest 
them. I merely print the "Press's" statement because 
I think it is interesting, sometimes, to see what a 
city thinks about itself. For my own part, I should 
think more of Grand Rapids if, instead of sitting tight 
and thinking these extraordinary thoughts, it had done 
more to carry out the plan it had for its own beautifica- 
tion. 

That is not to say that it is not a pretty city. It is. 
But its beauty is of that unconscious kind which comes 
from hills, and pleasant homes, and lawns, and trees. 

131 



ABROAD AT HOME 

The kind of beauty that it lacks is conscious beauty, the 
creation of which requires the expenditure of thought, 
money, and effort. And if it does nothing else to indi- 
cate its intellectual and esthetic soarings, I should say 
that it might do well to discard the reading lamp in 
favor of the crowbar, if only for long enough to take 
the latter instrument, go down to the park, and see what 
can be done about that chimney which rises so absurdly 
there. 

The lack of coherent municipal taste is all the more 
a reproach to Grand Rapids for the reason that taste, 
perhaps above all other qualities, is the essential char- 
acteristic of the city's leading industry. 

I used to have an idea that "cheap" furniture came 
from Grand Rapids. Perhaps it did. Perhaps it still 
does. I do not know. But I do know that the tour I 
made through the five acres, more or less, of rooms 
which make up the show house of Berkey & Gay, af- 
forded me the best single bit of concrete proof I met, 
in all my travels, of the positive growth of good taste 
in this country. 

Just as the whole face of things has changed archi- 
tecturally in the last ten or fifteen years, furnishings 
have also changed. The improved appreciation which 
makes people build sightly homes makes them fill those 
homes with furniture of respectable design. People 
are beginning to know about the history of furniture, 
to recognize the characteristics of the great English 

132 



GRAND RAPIDS THE "ELECT" 

furniture designers and to appreciate the beauty which 
they handed down. 

We went through the warerooms with Mr. Gay, and 
as I feasted my eyes upon piece after piece, set after 
set, of Chippendale, Sheraton, Heppelwhite, and Adam, 
I asked Mr. Gay about the renaissance which is upon 
us. One thing I was particularly curious about: I 
wanted to know whether the improvement in furniture 
sprang from popular demand or whether it had been in 
some measure forced upon the public by the manufac- 
turers. 

Mr. Gay told me that the change was something 
which originated with the people. "We have always 
wanted to make beautiful furniture," he said, "and we 
have helped all we could, but a manufacturer of furni- 
ture cannot force either good taste or bad taste upon 
those who buy. He has to offer them what they are 
willing to take, for they will not buy anything else. I 
know that, because sometimes we have tried to press 
matters a little. Now and then we have indulged our- 
selves to the extent of turning out some fine pieces,, of 
one design or another, a little in advance of public ap- 
preciation, but there has never been any considerable 
sale for such things." He indicated a fine Jacobean 
library table of oak. "Take that piece for instance. 
We made some furniture like that twenty or twenty- 
five years ago, but could sell very Httle of it. People 
were n't ready fox it then. Or this Adam set — as re- 
cently as five years ago we could n't have hoped for any- 

133 



ABROAD AT HOME 

thing more than a few nibbles on that kind of thing, but 
there 's a big market for it now." 

I asked Mr. Gay if he had any theories as to 
what had caused the development in popular apprecia- 
tion. 

"It is a great big subject," he said. "I think the 
magazines have done some of it. There have been 
quantities of publications on house furnishing. And 
the manufacturers' catalogues have helped, too. And 
as wealth and leisure have increased, people have had 
more time to give to the study of such things." 

On the train going to Chicago I fell into conversation 
with a man whom I presently discerned to be a furni- 
ture manufacturer. I don't know who he was but he 
told me about the furniture exposition which is held in 
Grand Rapids in January and July each year. There 
are large buildings with many acres of floor space which 
stand idle and empty all the year around, excepting at 
the time of these great shows. Last year more than 
two hundred and fifty separate manufacturers had ex- 
hibitions, a large number of them being manufacturers 
whose factories were not located in Grand Rapids, but 
who nevertheless found it profitable to ship samples there 
and rent space in the exhibition buildings in order to 
place their wares before the buyers who gather there 
from all over the country. 

Before we parted, this gentleman told me a story 
which, though he said it was an old one, I had never 
heard before. 

134 



GRAND RAPIDS THE ''ELECT" 

According to this story, there was, in Grand Rapids, 
a very inquisitive furniture manufacturer, who was al- 
ways trying to find out about the business done by 
other manufacturers. When he would meet them he 
would question them in a way they found exceedingly 
annoying. 

One day, encountering a rival manufacturer upon the 
street, he stopped him and began the usual line of ques- 
tions. The other answered several, becoming more and 
more irritated. But finally his inquisitor asked one too 
many. 

"How many men are working in your factory now?" 
he demanded. 

"Oh," said the other, as he turned away, "about two- 
thirds of them." 



135 



CHICAGO 



CHAPTER XI 
A MIDDLE-WESTERN MIRACLE 

IMAGINE a young demigod, product of a union be- 
tween Rodin's "Thinker" and the Winged Victory 
of Samothrace, and you will have my symbol of 
Chicago. 

Chicago is stupefying. It knows no rules, and I 
know none by which to judge it. It stands apart from 
all the cities in the world, isolated by its own individu- 
ality, an Olympian freak, a fable, an allegory, an in- 
comprehensible phenomenon, a prodigious paradox in 
which youth and maturity, brute strength and soaring 
spirit, are harmoniously confused. 

Call Chicago mighty, monstrous, multifarious, vital, 
lusty, stupendous, indomitable, intense, unnatural, as- 
piring, puissant, preposterous, transcendent — call it 
what you like — throw the dictionary at it! It is all 
that you can do, except to shoot it with statistics. And 
even the statistics of Chicago are not deadly, as most 
statistics are. 

First, you must realize that Chicago stands fourth 
in population among the cities of the world, and second 
among those of the Western Hemisphere. Next you 
must realize that there are people still alive who were 

139 



ABROAD AT HOME 

alive when Chicago did not exist, even as a fort in a 
swamp at the mouth of the Chicago River — the river 
from which, by the way, the city took its name, and 
which in turn took its own name from an Indian word 
meaning "skunk." 

I do not claim that there are many people still alive 
who were alive when Chicago was n't there at all, or 
that such people are feeling very active, or that they re- 
member much about it, for in 102 years a man forgets 
a lot of little things. Nevertheless, there arc living 
men older than Chicago. 

Just one hundred years ago Fort Dearborn, at the 
mouth of the river, was being rebuilt, after a massacre 
by the Indians. Eighty-five years ago Chicago was a 
village of one hundred people. Sixty-five years ago 
this village had grown into a city of approximately the 
present size of Evanston — a suburb of Chicago, with 
less than thirty thousand people. Fifty-five years ago 
Chicago had something over one hundred thousand in- 
habitants. Forty-five years ago, at the time of the 
Chicago fire, the city was as large as Washington is 
now — over three hundred thousand. In the ten years 
v.'hich followed the disaster, Chicago was not only en- 
tirely rebuilt, and very much improved, but also it in- 
creased in population to half a million, or about the 
size of Detroit. In the next decade it actually doubled 
in size, so that, twenty-five years ago, it passed 
the million mark. Soon after that it pushed Phila- 

140 



A MIDDLE-WESTERN MIRACLE 

delphia from second place among- American cities. So 
it has gone on, until to-day it has a population of two 
million, plus a city of about the size of San Francisco 
for full measure. 

There are the statistics in a capsule paragraph. I 
hope you will feel better in the morning. And just to 
take the taste away, here 's another item which you 
may like because of its curious flavor: Chicago has 
more Poles than any other city except Warsaw, 



One knows in advance what a visitor from Europe 
will say about New York, just as one knows what an 
American humorist will say about Europe. But one 
never knows what any visitor wall say about Chicago. 
I have heard people damn Chicago — "up hill and down" 
I was about to say, but I withdraw that, for the highest 
hill I remember in Chicago is that ungainly little bump, 
on the lake front, which is surmounted by Saint 
Gaudens' statue of General Logan. 

As I was saying, I have heard people rave against 
Chicago and about it. Being itself a city of extremes, 
it seems to draw extremes of feeling and expression 
from outsiders. For instance, Canon Hannay, who 
writes novels and plays under the name of George A. 
Birmingham, was quoted, at the time of his recent visit 
to this country, as saying: "In a little while Chicago 
will be a world center of literature, music, and art. 

141 



ABROAD AT HOME 

British writers will be more anxious for her verdict 
than for that of London. The music of the future will 
be hammered out on the shores of Lake Michigan. 
The Paris Salon will be a second-rate affair." 

Remembering that the Canon is an Irishman and a 
humorist — which is tautology — we may perhaps dis- 
count his statement a little bit for blarney and a little 
more for fun. His "prophecy" about the Salon seems 
to stamp the interview with waggery, for certainly it 
is not hard to prophesy what is already true — and, as 
everybody ought to know by now, the Salon has for 
years been second-rate. 

The Chicago Art Institute has by all odds the most 
important art collection I visited upon my travels. 
The pictures are varied and interesting, and American 
painters are well represented. The presence in the in- 
stitute of a good deal of that rather "tight" and "sug- 
ary" painting which came to Chicago at the time of the 
World's Fair, is to be regretted — a fact which is, I have 
no doubt, quite as well known to those in charge of the 
museum as to anybody else. But as I remarked in a 
previous chapter, most museums are hampered, in their 
early days, by the gifts of their rich friends. It takes 
a strong museum indeed to risk offending a rich man 
by kicking out bad paintings which he offers. Even 
the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York has not 
always been so brave as to do that. 

"Who 's Who" (which, .by the way, is published in 
Chicago) mentions perhaps a score of Chicago painters 

142 



A MIDDLE-WESTERN MIRACLE 

and sculptors, among the former Lawton S. Parker 
and Oliver Dennett Grover, and among the latter 
Lorado Taft. 

There are, however, many others, not in "Who 's 
Who," who attempt to paint — enough of them to give a 
fairly large and very mediocre exhibition which I saw. 
One thing is, however, certain: the Art Institute has 
not the deserted look of most other art museums one 
visits. It is used. This may be partly accounted for 
by its admirable location at the center of the city — a 
location more accessible than that of any other museum 
I think of, in the country. But whatever the reason, 
as you watch the crowds, you realize more than ever that 
Chicago is alive to everything — even to art. 

Years ago Chicago was musical enough to support 
the late Theodore Thomas and his orchestra — one of 
the most distinguished organizations of the kind ever 
assembled in this country. Thomas did great things for 
Chicago, musically. He started her, and she has kept 
on. Besides innumerable and varied concerts which 
occur throughout the season, the city is one of four in 
the country strong enough to support a first-rate grand 
opera company of its own. 

About twenty-five musicians of one sort and another 
are credited to Chicago by "Who 's Who," the most dis- 
tinguished of them, perhaps, being Fannie Bloom- 
field Zeisler, the concert pianist. But it is the writers 
of Chicago who come out strongest in the fat red vol- 
ume, among followers of the arts. With sinking heart 

143 



ABROAD AT HOME 

I counted about seventy of these, and I may be merely 
revealing my own ignorance when I add that the names 
of a good two-thirds of them were new to me. But 
this is dangerous ground. Without further comment 
let me say that among the seventy I found such names 
as Robert Herrick, Henry B. Fuller, Hamlin Garland, 
Emerson Hough, Henry Kitchell Webster, Maud Rad- 
ford Warren, Opie Read, and Clara Louise Burnham — 
a hatful of them which you may sort and classify ac- 
cording to your taste. 



Canon Hannay said he felt at home in Chicago. So 
did Arnold Bennett. Canon Hannay said Chicago re- 
minded him of Belfast. Arnold Bennett said Chicago 
reminded him of the "Five Towns," made famous in 
his novels. Even Baedeker breaks away from his usual 
nonpartizan attitude long enough to say with what, for 
Baedeker, is nothing less than an outburst of passion: 
"Great injustice is done to Chicago by those who repre- 
sent it as wholly given over to the worship of Mammon, 
as it compares favorably with a great many American 
cities in the efforts it has made to beautify itself by the 
creation of parks and boulevards and in its encourage- 
ment of education and the liberal arts." 

Baedeker is quite right about that. He might also 
have added that the "Windy City" is not so windy as 
New York, and that the old legend, now almost for- 
gotten, to the effect that Chicago girls have big feet is 

144 






1- 










Rodin's "Thinker" 



A MIDDLE-WESTERN MIRACLE 

equally untrue. There is still some wind in Chicago; 
thanks to it and to the present mode in dress, I was 
able to assure myself quite definitely upon the size of 
Chicago feet. I not only saw them upon the streets; I 
saw them also at dances: twinkling, slippered feet as 
small as any in the land; and, again owing to the pres- 
ent mode, I saw not only pretty feet, but also — How- 
ever, I am digressing. That is enough about feet. I 
fear I have already let them run away with me. 



A friend of mine who visited Chicago for the first 
time, a year ago, came back appreciative of her wonders, 
but declaring her provincial. 

"Why do you say provincial?" I asked. 

"Because you can't pick up a taxi in the street," he 
said. 

And it is true. I was chagrined at his discovery — 
not so much because of its truth, however, as because it 
was the discovery of a New Yorker. I always defend 
Chicago against New Yorkers, for I love the place, 
partly for itself and partly because I was born and 
spent my boyhood there. 

I know a great many other ex-Chicagoans who now live 
in New York, as I do, and I have noticed with amuse- 
ment that the side we take depends upon the society in 
which we are. If we are with Chicagoans, we defend 
New York; if with New Yorkers, we defend Chicago. 
We are like those people in the circus who stand upon 

145 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the backs of two horses at once. Only among ourselves 
do we go in for candor. 

The other day I met a man and his wife, transplanted 
Chicagoans, on the street in New York. 

"How^ long have you been here?" I asked. 

"Three years," said the husband. 

"Why did you come?" 

"For business reasons." 

"How do you like the change?" 

The husband hesitated. "Well, I 've done a great 
deal better here than I ever did in Chicago," he said. 

"How do 3^ou like it?" I asked the wife. 

"New York gives us more advantages," she said, 
"but I prefer Chicago people." 

"Would you like to go back?" 

The wife hesitated, but the husband shook his head. 

"No," he replied, "there 's something about New 
York that gets into your blood. To go back to Chicago 
would seem like retrograding." 

Among my notes I find the record of a conversation 
with a New York girl who married a Chicago man and 
went out there to live. 

"I was very lonely at first," she said. "One day a 
man came around selling pencils. I happened to see 
him at the door. He said: T 'm an actor, and I'm 
trying to raise money to get back to New York.' As I 
was feeling then I 'd have given him anything in the 
house just because that was where he wanted to go. I 

146 



A MIDDLE-WESTERN MIRACLE 

gave him some money. 'Here,' I said, 'you take this 
and go on back to New York.' 'Why,' he inquired, 
'are you from New York, too?' I said I was. Then 
he asked me: 'What are you doing away out here?' 
'Oh,' I told him, 'this is my home now. I Hve here.' 
He thanked me, and as he put the money in his pocket 
he shook his head and said: 'Too bad! Too bad!' 

"That will show you how I felt at first. But when 
I came to know Chicago people I liked them. And now 
I would n't go back for anything." 

There is testimony from both sides. 

With the literary man the situation is, perhaps, a lit- 
tle different. New York is practically his one big mar- 
ket place. I was speaking about that the other day 
with an author who used to live in Chicago. 

"The atmosphere out there is not nearly so stimu- 
lating for a writer," he assured me. "Here, in New 
York, even a pretty big writer is lost in the shuffle. 
There, he is a shining mark. The Chicago writers 
are likely to be a little bit self-conscious and naive. 
They have their own local literary gods, and they 're 
rather inclined to sit around and talk solemnly about 
'Art with a capital A.' " 



Necessarily, when the adherents of two cities start 
an argument, they are confined to concrete points. 
They talk about opera and theaters and buildings and 
hotels and stores, and seldom touch upon such subtle 

147 



ABROAD AT HOME 

things as city spirit. For spirit is a hard thing to deal 
with and a harder thing to prove. Yet "greatness 
knows itself." Chicago unquestionably knows that it 
is great, and that its greatness is of the spirit. But the 
Chicagoan, debating in favor of his city, is unable to 
"get that over," and is therefore obliged to fall back 
upon two last, invariable defenses : the department store 
of Marshall Field & Co. and the Blackstone Hotel. 

The Blackstone he will tell you, with an eye lit by 
fanatical belief, is positively the finest hotel in the whole 
United States. Mention the Ritz, the Plaza, the St. 
Regis, the Biltmore, or any other hotel to him, and it 
makes no difiference; the Blackstone is the best. As to 
Marshall Field's, he is no less positive : It is not merely 
the largest but also the very finest store in the whole 
world. 

I have never stopped at any of those hotels with 
which the New Yorker would attempt to defeat the 
Blackstone. But I have stopped at the Blackstone, and 
it is undeniably a very good hotel. One of the most 
agreeable things about it is the air of willing service 
which one senses in its stafif. It is an excellent man- 
ager who can instil into his servants that spirit which 
causes them to seem to be eternally on tiptoe — not for 
a tip but for a chance to serve. Further, the Blackstone 
occupies a position, with regard to the fashionable life 
of Chicago, which is not paralleled by any single hotel 
in New York. Socially it is preeminently the place. 

General dancing in such public restaurants as Rec- 

148 



A MIDDLE-WESTERN MIRACLE 

tor's — the original Rector's is in Chicago, you know — 
and in the dining rooms of some hotels, was started in 
Chicago, but was soon stopped by municipal regula- 
tion. Since that time other schemes have been de- 
vised. Dances are held regularly in the ballrooms of 
most of the hotels, but are managed as clubs or semi- 
private gatherings. This arrangement has its advan- 
tages. It would have its advantages, indeed, if it did 
nothing more than put the brakes on the dancing craze 
— as any one can testify who has seen his friends offer- 
ing up their business and their brains as a sacrifice to 
Terpsichore. But that is not what I started to say. 
The advantage of the system which was in vogue at 
the Blackstone, when I was there, is that, to get into 
the ballroom people must be known; wherefore ladies 
who still have doubts as to the propriety of dancing 
in a public restaurant need not, and do not, hesitate to 
go there and dance to their toes' content. 



149 



CHAPTER XII 
FIELD'S AND THE "TRIBUNE" 

OF course we visited Marshall Field's. 
The very obliging gentleman who showed 
us about the inconceivably enormous build- 
ings, rushing from floor to floor, poking in and out 
through mysterious, baffling doors and passageways, 
now in the public part of the store where goods are 
sold, now behind the scenes where they are made — 
this gentleman seemed to have the whole place in his 
head — almost as great a feat as knowing the whole 
world by heart. 

"How much time can you spare?" he asked as we 
set out from the top floor, where he had shown us a 
huge recreation room, gymnasium, and dining room, all 
for the use of the employees. 

"How long should it take?" 

"It can be done in two hours," he said, "if we keep 
moving all the time." 

"All right," I said — and we did keep moving. 
Through great rooms full of trunks, of brass beds, 
through vast galleries of furniture, through restaurants, 
grilles, afternoon tea rooms, rooms full of curtains and 
coverings and cushions and corsets and waists and hats 

150 



. FIELD'S AND THE "TRIBUNE" 

and carpets and rugs and linoleum and lamps and toys 
and stationery and silver, and Heaven only knows what 
else, over miles and miles of pleasant, soft, green car- 
pet, I trotted along beside the amazing man who not 
only knew the way, but seemed even to know the clerks. 
Part of the time I tried to look about me at the phan- 
tasmagoria of things with which civilization has en- 
cumbered the human race; part of the time I listened 
to our cicerone; part of the time I walked blindly, 
scribbling notes, while my companion guided my steps. 

Here are some of the notes : 

Ten thousand employees in retail store Choral 

society, two hundred members, made up of sales-peo- 
ple Twelve baseball teams in retail store; twelve 

in wholesale ; play during season, and, finally, for cham- 
pionship cup, on ''Marshall Field Day" Lectures 

on various topics, fabrics, etc., for employees, also for 

outsiders: women's clubs, etc. Employees' lunch: 

soup, meat, vegetables, etc., sixteen cents Largest 

retail custom dressmaking business in the country 

Largest business in ready-made apparel Largest 

retail millinery business Largest retail shoe busi- 
ness Largest branch of Chicago public library 

(for employees) Largest postal sub-station in 

Chicago Largest — largest — largest ! 

Now and then when something interested me par- 
ticularly we would pause and catch our breath. Once 
we stopped for two or three minutes in a fine school- 

151 



ABROAD AT HOME 

room, where some stock-boys and stock-girls were hav- 
ing a lesson in fractions — "to fit them for better posi- 
tions." Again we paused in a children's playroom, 
where mothers left their youngsters while they went to 
do their shopping, and where certain youngsters, thus 
deposited, were having a gorgeous time, sliding down 
things, and running around other things, and crawling 
over and under still other things. Still again we 
paused at the telephone switchboard — a switchboard 
large enough to take care of the entire business of a 
city of the size of Springfield, the capital of Illinois. 
And still again we paused at the postal sub-station, where 
fifty to sixty thousand dollars' worth of stamps are 
sold in a year, and which does as great a postal busi- 
ness, in the holiday season, as the whole city of Mil- 
waukee does at the same period. 

At one time we would be walking through a great 
shirt factory, set ofif in one corner of that endless 
building, all unknown to the shoppers who never get 
behind the scenes ; then we would pop out again into the 
dressed-up part of the store, just as one goes from the 
kitchen and the pantry of a house into the formality of 
dining room and drawing room. And as we appeared 
thus, and our guide was recognized as the assistant 
manager of all that kingdom, with its population of ten 
thousand, saleswomen would rise suddenly from seats, 
little gossiping groups would disperse quickly, and floor 
men, who had been talking with saleswomen, would 
begin to occupy themselves with other matters. I re- 

152 



FIELD'S AND THE 'TRIBUNE" 

member coming upon a "silence room" for saleswomen 
— a large, dark, quiet chamber, in which was an attend- 
ant; also a saleswoman who was restlessly resting by 
rocking herself in a chair. And as we moved through 
the store we kept taking off our hats as we went behind 
the scenes, and putting them on as we emerged into the 
public parts. Never before had I realized how much 
of a department store is a world unseen by shoppers. 
At one point, in that hidden world, a vast number of 
women were sewing upon dresses. I had hardly time 
to look upon this picture when, rushing through a little 
door, in pursuit of my active guide, I found myself in 
a maze of glass, and long-piled carpets, and mahogany, 
and electric light, and pretty frocks, disposed about on 
forms. Also disposed about were many "perfect thirty- 
sixes," with piles of taffy-colored hair, doing the "debu- 
tante slouch" in their trim black costumes, so slinky and 
alluring. Here I had a strong impulse to halt, to 
pause and examine the carpets and woodwork, and 
one thing and another. But no! Our guardian had 
a professional pride in getting us through the store 
within two hours, according to his promise. I would 
gladly have allowed him an extra ten minutes if I could 
have spent it in that place, but on we went — my com- 
panion and I dragging behind a little and looking back- 
ward at the Lorelei — I remember that, because I ran 
into a man and knocked my hat off. 

At last we came to the information bureau, and as 
there was a particularly attractive young person behind 

153 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the desk, it occurred to me that this would be a fine 
time to get a httle information. 

"I wonder if I can stump that sinuous sibyl," I said. 

"Try it," said our conductor. 

So I went over to her and asked: *'How large is this 
store, please?" 

''You mean the building?" 

"Yes." 

"There is fifty acres of floor space under this roof," 
she said. "There are sixteen floors: thirteen stories 
rising two hundred and fifty-eight feet above the street, 
and three basements, extending forty-three and a half 
feet below. The building takes up one entire block. 
The new building devoted exclusively to men's goods is 
just across Washington Street. That building is — " 

"Thank you very much," I said. "That 's all I want 
to know about that. Can you tell me the population of 
Chicago?" 

"Two million three hundred and eighty-eight thou- 
sand five hundred," she said glibly, showing me her 
pretty teeth. 

Then I racked my brains for a difficult question. 

"Now," I said, "will you please tell me where Charles 
Towne was born?" 

"Do you mean Charles A. Towne, the lawyer; Charles 
Wayland Towne, the author; or Charles Hanson 
Towne, the poet?" she demanded. 

I managed to say that I meant the poet Towne. 

"He was born in Louisville, Kentucky," she informed 

154 



FIELD'S AND THE "TRIBUNE" 

me sweetly. She even gave me the date of his birth, too, 
but as the poet is a friend of mine, I will suppress that. 

'Ts that all?" she inquired presently, seeing that I 
was merely gazing at her. 

"Yes, you adorable creature." The first word of 
that sentence is all that I really uttered. I only thought 
the rest. 

"Very well," she replied, shutting the book in which 
she had looked up the Townes. 

"Thanks very much," I said. 

"Don't mention it," said she — and went about her 
business in a way that sent me about mine. 

Aside from its vastness and the variety of its activi- 
ties, two things about Marshall Field's store interested 
me particularly. One is the attitude maintained by the 
company with regard to claims made in the advertising 
of "sales." When there is a "sale" at Field's compari- 
sons of values are not made. It may be said that cer- 
tain articles are cheap at the price at which they are 
being offered, but it is never put in the form: "Was 
$5. Now $2.50." Field's does not believe in that. 

"We take the position," an official explained to me, 
"that things are worth what they will bring. For in- 
stance, if some manufacturer has made too many over- 
coats, and we are able to get them at a bargain, or if 
there is a mild winter and overcoats do not sell well, we 
may place on sale a lot of coats which were meant to be 
sold at $40, but which we are willing to sell at $22.50. 

155 



ABROAD AT HOME 

In such a case we never advertise 'Worth $40.' We 
just point out that these are exceptionally good coats 
for the money. And, when we say that, it is invariably 
true. This advertising is not so sensational as it could 
be made, of course, but we think that in the long run it 
teaches people to rely upon us." 

Another thing which interested me in Field's was the 
appearance of the saleswomen. They do not look like 
New York saleswomen. In the aggregate they look 
happier, simpler, and more natural. I saw no women 
behind the counters there who had the haughty, indif- 
ferent bearing, the nose-in-the-air, to which the New 
York shopper is accustomed. Among these women, no 
less than among the rich, the Chicago spirit seemed to 
show itself. It is everywhere, that spirit. I admit 
that, perhaps, it does not go with omnipresent taxicabs. 
I admit that there are more effete cities than Chicago. 
The East is full of them. But that any city in the 
country has more sterling simplicity, greater freedom 
from sham and affectation among all classes, more 
vigorous cultivation, or more well-bred wealth, I re- 
spectfully beg to doubt. 

No, I have not forgotten Boston and Philadelphia. 



In an earlier chapter I told of a man I met upon a 
train who, though he lived in Buffalo, had never 
seen Niagara Falls. In Chicago it occurred to me that, 
though I had worked on a newspaper, I had never stood 

156 



I 



FIELD'S AND THE "TRIBUNE" 

as an observer and watched a newspaper "go through." 
So, one Saturday night after sitting around the city 
room of the Chicago "Tribune" — which is one of the 
world's great newspapers — and talking with a group of 
men as interesting as any men I ever found together, 
I was placed m charge of James Durkin, the w^orld's 
most eminent office boy, who forthwith took me to the 
nether regions of the "Tribune" Building. 

AA^ith its floor of big steel plates, its towering presses, 
vast and incomprehensible, and its grimy men in over- 
alls, the pressroom struck me as resembling nothing so 
nuich as the engine room of an ocean liner. 

The color presses were already roaring, shedding 
streams of printed paper like swift waterfalls, down 
which shot an endless chain of Mona Lisas — for the 
Mona Lisa took the whole front page of the "Tribune" 
colored supplement that week. At the bottom, where 
the "folder" put the central creases in them, the paper 
torrents narrowed to a disappearing point, giving the 
illusion of a subterranean river, vanishing beneath the 
floor. But the river did n't vanish. It was caught, and 
measured, and folded, and cut, and counted by ma- 
chinery, as swift, as eye-defying, as a moving picture; 
machinery which miraculously converted a cataract into 
prim piles of Sunday newspapers, which were, in turn, 
gathered up and rushed away to the mailing room — 
whither, presently, w^e followed. 

In the mailing room I made the acquaintance of a 
machine with which, if it had not been so busy, I should 

157 



ABROAD AT HOME 

have liked to shake hands, and sit down somewhere for 
a quiet chat. For it was a machine possessed of the 
Chicago spirit: modest, businesslike, effective, and 
highly intelligent. I did not interrupt it, but w^atched 
it at its work. And this is what it did: It took Sunday 
papers, one by one, from a great pile which was handed 
to it every now and then, folded them neatly, wrapped 
them in manila paper, sealed them up with mucilage, 
squeezed them, so that the seal would hold, addressed 
them to out-of-town subscribers and dropped them into 
a mail sack. There was a man who hovered about, 
acting as a sort of valet to this highly capable machine, 
but all he had to do was to bring it more newspapers 
from time to time, and to take away the mail bags when 
they were full, or when the machine had finished with 
all the subscribers in one town, and began on another. 
Nor did it fail to serve notice of each such change. 
Every time it started in on a new town it dipped its 
thumb in some red ink, and made a dab on the wrapper 
of the first paper, so that its valet — poor human thing — 
would know enough to furnish a new mail bag. I noted 
the name to which one red-dabbed paper was addressed : 
E. J. Henry, Bosco, Wis., and I wondered if Mr. Henry 
had ever wondered what made that florid mark. 

It was near midnight then. All Bosco was asleep. 
Was Mr. Henry dreaming? And however wonderful 
his dream, could it surpass, in wonder, this gigantic 
organization which, for a tiny sum, tells him, daily, 
everything that happens everywhere? 

158 



FIELD'S AND THE "TRIBUNE" 

Think of the men and the machines that work for Mr. 
E. J. Henry, resident of Bosco, in the Badger State! 
Think of the lumbermen who cut the logs; of the East- 
ern rivers down which those logs float; of the great 
pulp mills which convert them into paper. Think of the 
railroad trains which bring that paper to Chicago. 
Think of the factories which build presses for the ulti- 
mate defacement of that paper; and the other factories 
which make the ink. Think of the reporters working 
everywhere ! Think of the men who laid the wires with 
which the world is webbed, that news may fly; and the 
men who sit at the ends of those wires, in all parts of the 
globe, ticking out the story of the day to the "Tribune" 
oflice in Chicago, where it is received by other men, who 
give it to the editors, who prepare it for the linotypers, 
who set it for the stereotypers, who make it into plates 
for the presses, which print it upon the paper, which is 
folded, addressed, and dropped into a mail bag, which 
is rushed off in a motor through the midnight streets 
and put aboard a train, which carries it to Bosco, where 
it is taken by the postman and delivered at the residence 
of Mr. E. J. Henry, who, after tearing the manila wrap- 
per, opening the paper, and glancing through it, re- 
marks : "Pshaw ! There 's no news to-day !" and, forth- 
with, rising from the breakfast table, takes up an old 
pair of shoes, wraps them in his copy of the Chicago 
"Tribune," tucks them under his arm and takes them 
down to the cobbler to be half-soled. 

Sic transit gloria! 

159 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Up-stairs, on the roof of the "Tribune" Building, in 
a kind of deck-house, is a club, made up of members 
of the staff, and here, through the courtesy of some of 
the editors, my companion and I were invited to have 
supper. When I had eaten my fill, I had a happy 
thought. Here, at my mercy, were a lot of men who 
were engaged in the business of sending out reporters 
to molest the world for interviews. I decided to turn 
the tables and, then and there, interview them — all of 
them. And I did it. And they took it very well. 

I had heard that the ''Column" — that sometimes, if 
not always, humorous newspaper department, which 
now abounds throughout the country, threatening to be- 
come a pestilence — originated with the "Tribune." I 
asked about that, and in return received, from several 
sources, the history of "Columns," as recollected by 
these men. 

Probably the first regular humorous column in the 
country — certainly the first to attract any considerable 
attention, — was conducted for the "Tribune" by Henry 
Ten Eyck White, familiarly known as "Butch" White. 
It started about 1885, under the heading, "Lakeside 
Musings." After running this column for some five 
years, White gave it up, and it was taken over, imder 
the same heading, by Eugene Field, who made it even 
better known than it had been before. 

Field had started as a "columnist" on the Denver 
"Tribune," where he had run his "Tribune Primer"; 
later he had been brought to Chicago by Melville E. 

1 60 



FIELD'S AND THE "TRIBUNE" 

Stone (now general manager of the Associated Press) 
and Victor F. Lawson, who had together estabUshed 
the Chicago "Daily News," of which Mr. Lawson is the 
present editor and publisher. Field's column in the 
"News" was known as "Sharps and Flats." In it ap- 
peared his free translations of the Odes of Horace, and 
much of his best known verse. Also he printed gossip 
of the stage and of literary matters — the latter being 
gathered by him at the meetings of a little club, "The 
Bibliophiles," composed of prominent Chicagoans. 
This club used to meet in the famous old McClurg book- 
store. 

In 1890 George Ade came from Indiana, and after 
having been a reporter on the Chicago "Record" for one 
year, started his famous "Stories of the ^Street and 
Town," under which heading much of his best early 
work appeared. This department was illustrated by 
John T. McCutcheon, another Indiana boy. At about 
this time, Roswell Field, a brother of Eugene, was con- 
ducting a column called "Lights and Shadows" in the 
Chicago "Evening Post," in which paper Finley Peter 
Dunne was also beginning his "Dooleys." Dunne was 
born in Chicago and was a reporter on several Chicago 
papers before he found his level. He got the idea for 
"Dooley" from Jim McGarry, who had a saloon opposite 
the "Tribune" building, and employed a bartender 
named Casey, w^io was a foil for him. McGarry was 
described to me by a "Tribune" man who knew him, 
as "a crusty old cuss." 

i6i 



ABROAD AT HOME 

After some years Dunne left the "Post" and became 
editor of the Chicago "Journal," to which paper came 
(from Vermont by way of Duluth) Bert Leston Taylor. 
Taylor ran a department on the "Journal" which was 
called "A Little About Everything," and one of his 
"contribs" was a young insurance man, Franklin P. 
Adams. Later, when Taylor left the "Journal" to take 
a position on the "Tribune," Adams left the insurance 
business and went at "columning" in earnest, replacing 
Taylor on the "Journal." Some years since Adams 
migrated to the metropolis, where he now conducts a 
column called "The Conning Tower" in the New York 
"Tribune." 

Taylor, in the meantime, had started his famous 
column known as "A Line-o'-Type or Two." This he 
ran for three years, after which he moved to New York 
and became editor of "Puck." Before Taylor left the 
"Tribune," Wilbur D. Nesbit, who had been running a 
column which he signed "Josh Wink," in the Baltimore 
"American," came to Chicago and started a column 
called "The Top o' the Morning," which, for a time, al- 
ternated with Taylor's "Line-o'-Type." Later Nesbit 
moved over to the "Post," where he conducted a depart- 
ment called "The Linocent Bystander," leaving the 
"Tribune," for a time, without a "column." 

In the next few years two other "columns" started in 
Chicago, "Alternating Currents," conducted by S. E. 
Kiser, for the "Record-Herald," and "In the Wake of 
the News," which was started in the "Tribune" by the 

162 



ji 



FIELD'S AND THE "TRIBUNE" 

late "Hughey" Keough, who is still remembered as an 
exceptionally gifted man. When Keough died, Hugh S. 
Fullerton ran the column for a time, after which it was 
taken up by R. W. Lardner, who, I believe, continues to 
conduct it, although he has recently written baseball 
stories which have been published in "The Saturday 
Evening Post," and have attracted much attention. 
Kiser also continues his column in the "Record-Herald." 
Another column, which started a year or so ago is 
"Breakfast Food" in the Chicago "Examiner," con- 
ducted by George Phair, formerly of Milwaukee. 

The Chicago "Tribune" now has two "columns," for, 
five years since, it recaptured Bert Leston Taylor, and 
brought him back to revive his "Line-o'-Type." He has 
been there ever since, and, so far as I know "columns," 
his is the best in the United States. It has been widely 
imitated, as has also been the work of the "Tribune's" 
famous cartoonist, John T. McCutcheon. But some- 
thing that a "Tribune" man said to me of McCutcheon, 
is no less true, I think, of Taylor: "They can imitate 
his style, but they cannot imitate his mind." 



163 



CHAPTER XIII 
THE STOCKYARDS 

IT is rather widely known, I think, that Chicago built 
the first steel-frame skyscraper — the Tacoma Build- 
ing — but I do not believe that the world knows that 
Kohlsaat's in Chicago was the first quick-lunch place of 
its kind, or that the first "free lunch" in the country was 
established, many years since, in the basement saloon 
at the corner of State and Madison Streets. Consider- 
ing the skyscrapers and quick lunches and free lunches 
that there are to-day, it is hard to realize that there ever 
was a first one anywhere. But the origin of things 
which have become national institutions, as these things 
have, seems to me to be worth recording here. It may 
be added that the loyal Chicagoan who told of these 
things seemed to be prouder of the "free lunch" and the 
quick lunch than of the skyscraper. 

Of two things I mentioned to him he was not proud at 
all. One was the famous pair of First Ward aldermen 
who have attained a national fame under their nick- 
names, "Hinky Dink" and "Bathhouse John." The 
other was the stockyards. 

"Why is it," he asked in a bored and irritated tone, 
"that every one who comes out here has to go to the 
stockyards?" 

164 



THE STOCKYARDS 

"Are you aware," I returned, "that half the bank 
clearings of Chicago are traceable to the stockyards?" 

He answered with a noncommittal grunt. 

His was not the attitude of the Detroit man who 
wants you to know that Detroit does something more 
than make automobiles, or of the Grand Rapids man 
who says : "We make lots of things here besides furni- 
ture." He was really ashamed of the stockyards, as 
a man may, perhaps, be ashamed of the fact that his 
father made his money in some business with a smell 
to it. And because he felt so deeply on the subject, 
I had the half idea of not touching on the stockyards 
in this chapter. 

However the news that my companion and myself 
were there to "do" Chicago was printed in the papers, 
and presently the stockyards began to call us up. It 
did n't even ask if we were coming. It just asked when. 
And as I hesitated, it settled the whole matter then and 
there by saying it would call for us in its motor car, at 
once. 

I may say at the outset that, to quote the phrase of 
Mr. Freer of Detroit, the stockyards "has no esthetic 
value." It is a place of mud, and railroad tracks, and 
cattle cars, and cattle pens, and overhead runways, and 
great ugly brick buildings, and men on ponies, and 
raucous grunts, and squeals, and smells — a place which 
causes the heart to sink with a sickening heaviness. 

Our first call was at the Welfare Building, where we 
were shown some of the things which are being done to 

i6s 



ABROAD AT HOME 

benefit employees of the packing houses. It was noon- 
time. The enormous kuich room was well occupied. 
A girl was playing ragtime at a piano on a platform. 
The room was clean and airy. The women wore aprons 
and white caps. A good lunch cost six cents. There 
were iron lockers in the locker room — lockers such as 
one sees in an athletic club. There were marble shower 
baths for the men and for the women. There were two 
manicures who did nothing but see to the hands of the 
women working in the plant. There were notices of 
classes in housekeeping, cooking, washing, house fur- 
nishing, the preparation of food for the sick — signs 
printed in English, Russian, Slovak, Polish, Bohemian, 
Hungarian, Lithuanian, German, Norwegian, Swedish, 
Croatian, Italian, and Greek. Obviously, the company 
was doing things to help these people. Obviously it was 
proud of what it was doing. Obviously I should have 
rejoiced, saying to myself : "See how these poor, igno- 
rant foreigners who come over here to our beautiful and 
somewhat free country are being elevated!" But all 
I could think of was: "What a horrible place the stock- 
yards is! How I loathe it here!" 

On the North Side of Chicago there is an old and 
exclusive club, dating from before the days of motor 
cars, which is known as the Saddle and Cycle Club. 
The lunch club for the various packing-house officials, 
at the stockyards, has a name bearing perhaps some 
satirical relation to that of the other club. It is called 
the Saddle and Sirloin Club, and in that club I ate a 

1 66 



THE STOCKYARDS 

piece of sirloin the memory of which will always remain 
with me as something sacred. 

After Imiching- and visiting the offices of a packing 
company where, we were told, an average daily business 
of $1,300,000 is done — and the place looks it — we vis- 
ited the Stockyards Inn, which is really an astonishing 
establishment. The astonishing quality about it is that 
it is a thing of beauty which has grown up in a place as 
far removed from beauty as any that I ever looked 
upon outside a mining camp. A charming, low, half- 
timbered building, the Inn is like something at Stratford- 
on-Avon ; and by some strange freak of chance the man 
who runs it has a taste for the antique in furniture and 
chinaware. Inside it is almost like a fine old country 
house — pleasant cretonnes, grate fires, old Chippendale 
chairs, mahogany tables, grandfather's clocks, pewter, 
and luster ware. All this for cattlemen who bring their 
flocks and herds into the yards! The only thing to 
spoil it is the all-pervasive smell of animals. 

From there we went to the place of death. 

Through a small door the fated pigs enter the final 
pen fifteen or twenty at a time. They are nervous, 
perhaps because of the smell coming from within, per- 
haps because of the sounds. A man in the pen loops 
a chain around the hind foot of each successive pig, 
and then slips the iron ring at the other end of the 
chain over a hook at the outer margin of a revolving 
drum, perhaps ten feet in diameter. As the drum re- 
volves the hook rises, slowly, drawing the pig backward 

167 



ABROAD AT HOME 

by the leg, and finally lifting it bodily, head downward. 
When the hook reaches the top of its orbit it transfers 
the animal to a trolley, upon which it slides in due 
course to the waiting butcher, who dispatches it with a 
knife thrust in the neck, and turns to receive the next 

pig- 

The manners of the pigs on their way to execution 

held me with a horrid fascination. Pigs look so 
much alike that we assume them to be minus indi- 
viduality. That is not so. The French Revolution — 
of which the stockyards reminded Dr. George Brandes, 
the literary critic, who recently visited this country — 
scarcely could have brought out in its victims a wider 
range of characteristics than these pigs show. I have 
often noticed, of course, that some people are like pigs, 
but I had never before suspected that all pigs are so very 
much like people. Some of them come in yelling with 
fright. Others are silent. They shift about nervously, 
and sniff, as though scenting death. "It 's the steam 
they smell," said a man in overalls beside me. Well, 
perhaps it is. But I could smell death there, and I still 
think the pigs can smell it, too. Some of the pigs lean 
against each other for companionship in their distress. 
Others merely wait with bowed heads, giving a curious 
effect of porcine resignation. When they feel the tug 
of the chain, and are dragged backward, some of them 
set up a new and frightful squealing; others go in si- 
lence, and with a sort of dignity, like martyrs dying for 
a cause. 

i68 



THE STOCKYARDS 

As I stood there, studying the temperament of pigs, 
I saw the butcher looking up at me at he wiped his long, 
thin blade. He was a rawboned Slav with a pale face, 
high cheek bones, and large brown eyes, holding within 
their somber depths an expression of thoughtful, 
dreamy abstraction. I have never seen such eyes. 
Without prejudice or pity they seemed to look alike on 
man and pig. Being upon the platform above him, 
right side up, and free to go when I should please, I felt 
safe for the moment. But suppose I were not so — 
suppose I were to come along to him, hanging by one 
leg from the trolley — what w^ould he do then? Would 
he stop to ask why they had sent another sort of animal, 
I wondered? Or would he do his work impartially? 

I should not wish to take the chance. 

The progress of the pig is swift — if the transition 
from pig to pork may be termed "progress." The car- 
cass travels presently through boiling water, and 
emerges pink and clean. And as it goes along upon its 
trolley, it passes one man after another, each with an 
active knife, until, thirty minutes later, when it has un- 
dergone the government inspection, it is headless and 
in halves — mere meat, which looks as though it never 
could have been alive. 

From the slaughter-house we passed through the 
smoke-house, where ham and bacon were smoking over 
hardwood fires in rows of ovens big as blocks of houses. 
Then through the pickling room with its enormous hogs- 
heads, giving the appearance of a monkish wine cellar. 

169 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Then through the curing room with its countless piles 
of dry salt pork, neatly arranged like giant bricks. 

The enthusiastic gentleman who escorted us kept 
pointing out the beauties of the way this work was 
done: the cleanliness, the system by which the rooms 
are washed with steam, the gigantic scale of all the 
operations. I heard, I noticed, I agreed. But all the 
time my mind was full of thoughts of dying pigs. In- 
deed, I had forgotten for the moment that other animals 
are also killed to feed carnivorous man. However, I 
was reminded of that, presently, when we came upon 
another building, consecrated to the conversion of life 
into veal and beef. 

The steers meet death in little pens. It descends 
upon them unexpectedly from above, dealt out by a man 
with a sledge, who cracks them between the horns with 
a sound like that of a woodman's ax upon a tree. The 
creatures quiver and quickly crumple. 

It is swift. In half a minute the false bottom of the 
pen turns up and rolls them out upon the floor, inert as 
bags of meal. Only after death do these cattle find 
their way to an elevated trolley line, like that used for 
the pigs. And, as with the pigs, they move along 
speedily; shortly they are to be seen in the beef cooler, 
where they hang in tremendous rows, forming strange 
vistas — a forest of dead meat. 

The scene where calves were being killed according to 
the Jewish law, for kosher meat, presented the most 
sanguinary spectacle with which my eyes have ever 

170 



THE STOCKYARDS 

burned. Two rabbis, old bearded men, performed the 
rites with long, slim, shiny blades. Literally they 
waded in a lake of gore. Even the walls were covered 
with it. Looking down upon them from above, we saw 
them silhouetted on a sheet of pigment utterly beyond 
comparison — for, without exaggeration, fire would look 
pale and cold beside the shrieking crimson of that blood 
— glistening, wet, and warm in the electric light. 

I shall not attempt to conceal the fact that I was glad 
to leave the stockyards. 

When, a short time later, the motor car was bearing 
us smoothly down the sunlit boulevard, the Advertising 
Gentleman who had conducted us through all the car- 
nage put an abrupt question to me. 

"Do you want to be original?" he demanded. 

'T suppose all writers hope to be," I answered. 

"Well," he replied, tapping me emphatically upon the 
knee, "I '11 tell you how to do it. When you write about 
the Yards, don't mention the killing. Everybody 's done 
that. There 's nothing more to say. What you want 
to do is to dwell on the other side. That 's the way to 
be original." 

"The other side?" I murmured feebly. 

"Sure!" he cried. "Look at this." As he spoke, he 
produced from a pocket some proofs of pen-and-ink 
drawings — pictures of sweet-faced girls, encased in 
spotless aprons, wearing upon their heads alluring caps, 
and upon their lips the smiles of angels, while, with 

171 



ABROAD AT HOME 

their dainty rose-tipped fingers, they packed the lus- 
cious by-products of cattle-killing into tins — tins which 
shone as only the pen of the "commercial artist" can 
make tins shine. 

"There 's your story !" he exclaimed. "The poetic 
side of packing! Don't write about the slaughter- 
houses. Dwell on daintiness — pretty girls in w^hite 
caps — everything shining and clean! Don't you see 
that 's the way to make your story original?" 

Of course I saw it at once. Original? Why, 
original is no name for it! I could never have con- 
ceived such originality ! It is n't in me ! I should no 
more have thought of writing only of pretty girls and 
pretty cans, after witnessing those bloody scenes, than 
of describing the battle at Liege in terms of polish used 
on soldiers' buttons. 

But original as the idea is, you perceive I have not 
used it. I could not bear to. He thought of it first. 
It belonged to him. If I used it, the originality would 
not be mine, but his. So I have delibet-ately written 
the story in my own hackneyed way. 



172 



CHAPTER XIV 
THE HONORABLE HINKY DINK 

HAS it ever struck you that our mental attitude 
toward famous men varies in this respect : that 
while we think of some of them as human be- 
ings with whom we might conceivably shake hands and 
have a chat, we think of others as legendary creatures, 
strange and remote — beings hardly to be looked upon 
by human eyes? 

Some years since, in the courtyard of a hotel in 
Paris, I met a friend of mine. He was hurrying in the 
direction of the bar. 

"Come on," he beckoned. "There are some people 
here you '11 want to meet." 

I followed him in and to a table at which two men 
were seated. One proved to be Alfred Sutro ; the other 
Maurice Maeterlinck. 

To meet Mr. Sutro was delightful, but it was conceiv- 
able. Not so Maeterlinck. To shake hands with him, 
to sit at the same table, to see that he wore a black coat, a 
stiff collar (it was too large for him), a black string tie, 
a square-crowned derby hat ; to see him seated in a bar 
sipping beer like any man — that was not conceivable. 

I sat there speechless, trying to convince myself of 
what I saw. 

173 



ABROAD AT HOME 

"That man over there is actually Maeterlinck!" I kept 
assuring myself. 'T am looking at Maeterlinck! Now 
he nods the head in which The Bluebird' was conceived. 
Now he lifts his beer glass in the hand which indited 
'Monna Vanna !' " 

Nor was my amazement due entirely to the surprise 
of meeting a much-admired man. It was due, most of 
all, to a feeling which I must have had — although I was 
never before conscious of it — a feeling that no such 
man as Maeterlinck existed in reality; that he was 
a purely legendary being; a figure in white robes 
and sandals, harping and singing in some Elysian 
temple. 

I experienced a somewhat similar emotion in Chicago 
on being introduced to Hinky Dink. In saying that, I 
do not mean to be irreverent. I only mean that I had 
always thought of Hinky Dink as a fictitious personage. 
He and his colleague. Bathhouse John, have figured in 
my mind as a pair of absurd, imaginary figures, such as 
might have been invented by some whimsical son of a 
comic supplement like Winsor McCay. 

Now, as I soon discovered, the Hinky Dink of the 
newspapers is, as a matter of fact, to a large extent fic- 
titious. He is a legend, built up out of countless comic 
stories and newspaper cartoons. The real Hinky Dink 
— otherwise Alderman Michael Kenna — is a very dif- 
ferent person, for whatever may be said against him 
— and much is — he is a very real human being. 

174 



THE HONORABLE HINKY DINK 

I clip this brief summary of his Hfe from the Chicago 
"Record-Herald." 

Born on the West Side, August i8, 1858. 

Started life as a newsboy. 

"Crowned" as Alderman of the First Ward in 1897. 

Reelected biennially ever since. 

Owner in fief of various privileges in the First Ward. 

Lord of the Workingmen's Exchange. 

Overlord of floaters, voters, and other liege subjects. 

The Workingmen's Exchange, referred to above, is 
one of two saloons operated by the Alderman, on South 
Clark Street, and it is a show place for those who wish 
to look upon the darker side of things. It is a very 
large saloon, having one of the longest bars I ever saw ; 
also one of the busiest. Hardly anything but beer is 
served there; beer in schooners little smaller than a 
man's head. These are known locally as "babies," and, 
by a curious custom, the man who removes his fingers 
from his glass forfeits it to any one who takes it up. 
Nor are takers lacking. 

"I '11 tell you a funny thing about this place," said my 
friend the veteran police reporter, who was somewhat 
apologetically doing the honors. (Police reporters are 
always apologetic when they show you over a town that 
has been "cleaned up.") 

"What?" I asked. 

"No one has ever been killed in here," he said. 

I had to admit that it was a funny thing. After 
looking at the faces lined up at the bar I should not 

. 175 



ABROAD AT HOME 

have imagined it possible. Presently we crossed the 
street to the Alderman's other saloon; a very different 
sort of place, shining with mirrors, mahogany, and 
brass, and frequented by a better class of men. Here 
we met Hinky Dink. 

He is a slight man, so short of stature that when he 
leans a little, resting his elbow on the bar, his arm runs 
out horizontally from the shoulder. He wore an ex- 
tremely neat brown suit (there was even a white col- 
larette inside the vest!) a round black felt hat, and a 
heavy watch chain, from which hung a large circular 
charm with a star and crescent set in diamonds. 
Though it was late at night, he looked as if he had just 
been washed and brushed. 

His face is exceedingly interesting. His lips are 
thin; his nose is sharp, coming to a rather pronounced 
point, and his eyes are remarkable for what they see 
and what they do not tell. They are poker eyes — gray- 
blue, cold, penetrating, unrevealing. My companion 
and I felt that while we were "getting" Hinky Dink, he 
was not failing to "get" us. 

Far from being tough or vicious in his manner or con- 
versation, the little Alderman is very quiet. There is, 
indeed, a kind of gentleness about him. His English 
is, I should say, quite as good as that of the average 
man, while his thinking is much above the average as 
to quickness and clearness. As between himself and 
Bathhouse John, the other First Ward fixture on the 
Board of Aldermen, it is generally conceded that Hinky 

176 



I MM> 




[,\^mh^- 



Two rabbis, old bearded men, performed the rites with long, 
slim, shiny blades 



THE HONORABLE HINKY DINK . 

Dink is the more able and intelligent. On this point, 
however, I was unable to draw my own conclusions. 
The Bathhouse was ill when I was in Chicago. 

In the ordinary conversation of the Honorable Hinky 
Dink there is no trace of brogue, but a faint touch of 
brogue manifests itself when he speaks with unwonted 
vehemence — as, for example, when he told us about 
the injustices which he alleged were perpetrated up- 
on the poor voters who live in lodging houses in his 
ward. 

The little Alderman is famous for his reticence. 

"Small wonder!" said my friend the police reporter. 
"Look at what the papers have handed him ! I '11 tell 
you what happens: some city editor sends a kid re- 
porter to get a story about Hinky Dink. The kid comes 
and sees Kenna, and does n't get anything out of him 
but monosyllables. He goes back to the office without 
any story, but that does n't make any difference. Hinky 
Dink is fair game. The kid sits down to his typewriter 
and fakes a story, making out that the Alderman did n't 
only talk, but that he talked a kind of tough-guy dialect 
— 'deze-here tings' — 'doze dere tings' — all that kind of 
stuff. Can you blame the little fellow for not talking?" 

I could not. 

But he talked to us, and freely. The police reporter 
told him we were "right." That was enough. 

As the "red-light district" of Chicago used to be 
largely in the First Ward before it was broken up, I 
asked the Alderman for his views on the segregation of 

177 



ABROAD AT HOME 

vice versus the other thing, whatever it may be. (Is 
it dissemination?) 

*'I '11 tell you what I think about it," he replied, "but 
you can't print it." 

"Why not?" I asked, disappointed. 

"Well," he returned, "I believe in a segregated dis- 
trict, but if I 'm quoted as saying so, why the woman re- 
formers and everybody on the other side will take it up 
and say I 'm for it just because I want vice back in the 
First Ward again. I don't. It does n't make any dif- 
ference to me where you have it. Put it out by the 
Drainage Canal or anywheres you like. But I believe 
you can't stamp vice out ; not the way people are made to- 
day. They never have been able to stamp it out in all 
these thousands of years. And, as long as they can't, it 
looks to me like it was better to get it together all in one 
bunch than to scatter it all over town. 

"Now I know there 's a whole lot of good people that 
think segregation is a bad thing. Well, it is a bad 
thing. Vice is a bad thing. But there it is, all the 
same. A lot of these good people don't understand 
conditions. They don't understand what lots of other 
men and women are really like. You got to take people 
as they are and do what you can. 

"One thing that shocks a lot of these high-minded 
folks that live in comfortable homes and never have 
any trouble except when they have to get a new cook, 
is the idea of commercialized vice that goes with segre- 
gation. Of course it shocks them. But show me some 

178 



THE HONORABLE HINKY DINK 

way to stop it. Napoleon believed in segregation and 
regulation, and a lot of other wise people have, too. 

''Here's the way I think they ought to handle it: 
they ought to have a district regulated by the Police 
Department and the Health Department. Then there 
ought to be restrictions. No bright lights for one 
thing. No music. No booze. Cut out those things 
and you kill the place for sightseers. Then there ought 
to be a law that no woman can be an inmate without 
going and registering with the police, having her record 
looked up, and saying she wants to enter the house. 
That would prevent any possibility of white slavery. 
Personally, I think there 's a lot of bunk about this white- 
slave talk. But this plan would fix it so a girl could n't 
be kept in a house against her will. Any keeper of a 
house who let in a girl that was n't registered would be 
put out of business for good and all. Men ought not to 
be allowed to have any interest, directly or indirectly, 
in the management of these places. 

"Now, of course, there 's objections to any way at all 
of handling this question. The minute you say 'cut out 
the booze' that opens a way to police graft. But is that 
any worse than the chance for graft when the women 
are just chased around from place to place by the police ? 
Segregation gives them some rights, anyhow. 

"Some people say 'segregation does n't segregate.' 
Well, that 's true, too. But segregation keeps the 
worst of it from being scattered all over town, does n't 
it? When you scatter these women you have them liv- 

179 



ABROAD AT HOME 

ing in buildings alongside of respectable families, or, 
worse yet, you run them onto the streets. That 's 
persecution, and they 're bad enough off without 
that. 

"Say, do you think Chicago is really any more moral 
this minute because the old red-light district is shut 
down? A few of the resort keepers left town, and 
maybe a hundred inmates, but most of them stuck. 
They 're around in the residence districts now, running 
what they call 'buffet flats.' 

Listening to the little Alderman I was convinced of 
two things. First, I felt sure that, without thought of 
self-interest, he was telling me what he really believed. 
Second, as he is undeniably a man of broad experience 
among unfortunates of various kinds, his views are in- 
teresting. 

*T wish you 'd let me print what you have said," I 
urged as we were leaving his saloon. 

He shook his head. 

"I '11 tell you what I '11 do," I persisted. 'T '11 write 
it out. Perhaps I can put it in such a way that people 
will see that you were playing square. Then I '11 send 
it to you, and, if it does n't misrepresent you, perhaps 
you '11 let me print it after all." 

"All right," he agreed as we shook hands. 



i8o 



CHAPTER XV 
AN OLYMPIAN PLAN 

IN city planning, as in other things, Chicago has 
thought and plotted on an Olympian scale, and it is 
characteristic of Chicago that her plan for her own 
beautification should be so much greater than the plan 
of any other city in the country, as to make compari- 
sons unkind. For that reason I have eliminated Chicago 
from consideration, when discussing the various group 
plans, park and boulevard systems, and "civic centers," 
upon which other American cities are at work. 

The Chicago plan is, indeed, too immense a thing to be 
properly dealt with here. It is comparable with noth- 
ing less than the Haussman plan for Paris, and it is 
being carried forward, through the years, with the same 
foresight, the same patience and the same indomitable 
aspiration. Indeed, I think greater patience has been 
required in Chicago, for the French people were in sym- 
pathy with beauty at a time when the broad meaning of 
the word was actually not understood in this country. 
Here it has been necessary to educate the masses, to 
cultivate their city pride, and to direct that pride into 
creative channels. It is hardly too much to say that the 
minds of American city-dwellers (and half our race in- 

i8i 



ABROAD AT HOME 

habits cities) have had to be re-made, in order to 
prepare them to receive such plans as the Chicago 
plan. 

The World's Columbian Exposition, at Chicago, ex- 
erted a greater influence upon the United States than 
any other fair has ever exerted upon a country. It came 
at a critical moment in our esthetic history — a moment 
when the sense of beauty of form and color, which had 
hitherto been dormant in Americans, was ready to be 
aroused. 

Fortunately for us, the Chicago Fair was worthy of 
the opportunity; and that it was worthy of the oppor- 
tunity was due to the late Daniel Hudson Burnham, the 
distinguished architect, who was director of works for 
the Exposition. In the perspective of the twenty-one 
years which have passed since the Chicago Fair, the fig- 
lU'e of Mr. Burnham, and the importance of the work 
done by him, grows larger. When the history of the 
American Renaissance comes to be written, Daniel H. 
Burnham and the men by whom he was surrounded at 
the time the Chicago Fair was being made, will be listed 
among the founders of the movement. 

The Fair awoke the American sense of beauty. And 
before its course was run, a group of Chicago busi- 
ness men, some of whom were directors of the exposi- 
tion, determined to have a plan for the entire city which 
should so far as possible reflect the lessons of the Fair 
in the arrangement of streets, parks and plazas, and the 
grouping of buildings. 

182 



AN OLYMPIAN PLAN 

After the Fair, the Chicago Commercial Club commis- 
sioned Mr. Burnham to proceed to re-plan the city. 
Eight years were consumed in this work. The best 
architects available were called in consultation. After 
having spent more than $200,000, the Commercial Club 
presented the plan to the city, together with an elaborate 
report. 

To carry out the plan, the Chicago City Council, in 
1909, created a Plan Commission, composed of more 
than 300 men, representing every element of citizen- 
ship under the permanent chairmanship of Mr. Charles 
H. Wacker, who had previously been most active in the 
work. Under Mr. Wacker's direction, and with the 
aid of continued subscriptions from the Commercial 
Club, the work of the Commission has gone on steadily, 
and vast improvements have already been made. 

The Plan itself has to do entirely with the physical 
rearrangement of the city. It is designed to relieve 
congestion, facilitate traffic, and safeguard health. 

Instead of routing out the Illinois Central Railroad 
which disfigures the lake front of the whole South Side, 
the plan provides for the making of a parkway half a 
mile wide and five miles long, beyond the tracks, where 
the lake now is. This parkway will extend from Grant 
Park, at the center of the city, all the way to Jackson 
Park, where the World's Fair grounds were. Arrange- 
ments have also been made for immense forest areas, to 
encircle the city outside its limits, occupying somewhat 
the relation to it that the Bois de Boulogne and the Bois 

183 



ABROAD AT HOME 

de Vincennes do to Paris. New parks are also to be 
created within the city. 

It is impossible to go into further details here as to 
these parks, but it should be said that, when the lake 
front parkway system, above mentioned, is completed, 
practically the whole front of Chicago along Lake 
Michigan will be occupied by parks and lagoons, and that 
Chicago expects — and not without reason — to have the 
finest waterfront of any city in the world. 

Alichigan Avenue, the city's superb central street 
which already bears very heavy traffic, now has a width 
of 130 feet at the heart of the city, excepting to the 
north, near the river, where it becomes a narrow, squalid 
street, for all that it is the principal highway between 
the North and South Sides. This portion of the street 
is not only to be widened, but will be made into a two- 
level thoroughfare (the lower level for heavy vehicles 
and the upper for light) crossing the river on a double- 
deck bridge. 

It is a notorious fact that the business and shopping 
district of Chicago is at present strangled by the ele- 
vated railroad loop, which bounds the center of the city, 
and it is essential for the welfare of the city that this 
area be extended and made more spacious. The City 
Plan provides for a "quadrangle" to cover three square 
miles at the heart of Chicago, to be bounded on the east 
by Michigan Avenue, on the north by Chicago Avenue, 
on the west by Halsted Street, and on the south by 
Twelfth Street. When this work is done these streets 

184 



AN OLYMPIAN PLAN 

will have been turned into wide boulevards, and other 
streets, running through the quadrangle, will also have 
been widened and improved, principal among these be- 
ing Congress Street, which though not at present cut 
through, will ultimately form a great central artery, 
leading back from the lake, through the center of the 
quadrangle, forming the axis of the plan, and centering 
on a "civic center," which is to be built at the junction of 
Congress and Halsted Streets and from which diagonal 
streets will radiate in all directions. 

Nor does the plan end here. A complete system of ex- 
terior roadways will some day encircle the city; the 
water front along the river will be improved and new 
bridges built; also two outer harbors will be developed. 

By an agreement with the city, no major public work 
of any description is inaugurated until the Plan Commis- 
sion has passed upon its harmonious relationship with 
the general scheme. The Commission further considers 
the comprehensive development of the city's steam rail- 
way and street transportation systems; very recently it 
successfully opposed a railroad union depot project 
which was inimical to the Plan of Chicago, and it has 
generally succeeded in persuading the railroads to work 
in harmony with the plan, when making immediate im- 
provements. 

One of the most interesting and intelligently con- 
ducted departments under the Commission has to do 
with the education of the people of Chicago with regard 
to the Plan. A great deal of money and energy has been 

185 



ABROAD AT HOME 

expended in this work, with the result that city-wide 
misapprehension concerning the Plan has given place 
to city-wide comprehension. Lectures are given before 
schools and clubs with the idea of teaching Chicago what 
the plan is, why it is needed, and what great European 
cities have accomplished in similar directions. Books 
on the subject have been published and widely circulated, 
and one of these, "Wacker's Manual," has been adopted 
as a textbook by the Chicago Public Schools, with the 
idea of fitting the coming generations to carry on the 
work. 

If the plan as it stands at present has been ac- 
complished within a long lifetime, Chicago will have 
maintained her reputation for swift action. Two or 
three lifetimes would be time enough in any other city. 
Plowever, Chicago desires the fulfillment of the prophecy 
she has on paper. Work is going on, and the extent 
to which it will go on in future depends entirely upon 
the ability of the city to finance Plan projects. And 
when a thing depends upon the ability of the city of 
Chicago, it depends upon a very solid and a very splen- 
did thing. 



1 86 



CHAPTER XVI 
LOOKING BACKWARD 

THE Chicago Club is the rich, substantial club of 
the city, an organization which may perhaps be 
compared with the Union Club of New York, 
although the inner atmosphere of the Chicago Club 
seems somehow less formal than that of its New York 
prototype. However, that is true in general where 
Chicago clubs and New York clubs are compared. 

The University Club of Chicago has a very large and 
handsome building in the Gothic style, with a dining 
room said to be the handsomest club dining room in the 
world: a Gothic hall with fine stained-glass windows. 
Between this club-house and the great Gothic piles of 
the Chicago University there exists an agreeable, 
though perhaps quite accidental, architectural har- 
mony. 

Excepting Washington University, in St. Louis, 
Chicago University is the one great American college I 
have seen which seems fully to have anticipated its own 
vastness, and prepared for it with comprehensive plans 
for the grouping of its buildings. Architecturally it is 
already exceedingly harmonious and effective, for its 
great halls, all of gray Bedford stone, are beginning to 

187 



ABROAD AT HOME 

be toned by the Chicago smoke into what will some day 
be Oxonian mellowness. Even now, by virtue of its 
ancient architecture, its great size and massiveness, it 
is not without an effect of age — an effect which is, 
however, violently disputed by the young trees of the 
campus. Though these trees have grown as fast as 
they could, they have not been able to keep up with 
the growth of the great institution of learning, ferti- 
lized, as it has been, by Mr. Rockefeller's millions. In- 
stead of shading the university, the campus trees are 
shaded by it. 

The South Shore Country Club is an astonishing 
resort: a huge pavilion, by the lake, on the site of 
the old World's Fair grounds. It is a pleasant place to 
which to motor for meals, and is much used, especially 
for dining, in the summer time. The building of this 
club made me think of Atlantic City; I felt that I was 
not in a club at all, but in the rotunda of some vast hotel 
by the sea. 

I had no opportunity to visit The Little Room, a small 
club reported to be Chicago's artistic holy of holies, 
but I did have luncheon at the Cliff Dwellers, which is 
the larger and, I believe, more active organization. 
The Cliff Dwellers is a fine club, made up of writers 
and artists and their friends and allies. I know of no 
single club in New York where one may meet at 
luncheon a group of men more alive, more interesting, 
or of more varied pursuits, and I may add that I ab- 



LOOKING BACKWARD 

sorbed while there a very definite impression that be- 
tween men following the arts, and those following busi- 
ness, the line is not so sharply drawn in Chicago as in 
New York. 

At the Cliff Dwellers I met a gentleman, a librarian, 
who gave me some interesting information about the 
management of libraries in Chicago. 

"Chicago is a business city, dominated by business 
men," he said. "We have three large public libraries, 
one the Chicago Public Library, belonging to the city, 
and two others, the Newberry and the Crerar, estab- 
lished by rich men who left money for the pur- 
pose. 

"The system of interlocking directorates, elsewhere 
pronounced pernicious, has worked very beautifully in 
affecting cooperation instead of competition between 
these institutions. 

"About twenty years ago, at the time of the Crerar 
foundation, the boards of the three libraries met and 
formed a gentleman's agreement, dividing the field of 
knowledge. It was then arranged that the Chicago 
Public Library should take care of the majority of the 
people, and that the Newberry and the Crerar should 
specialize, the former in what is called the 'Humanities' 
— philosophy, religion, history, literature, and the fine 
arts; the latter in science, pure and applied. At that 
time the Newberry Library turned over to the Crerar, 
at cost, all books it possessed which properly belonged 

in the scientific category. And since that time there 

189 



ABROAD AT HOME 

has been practically no duplication among Chicago 
libraries. That is what comes of having public-spir- 
ited business men on library boards. They run these 
public institutions as they would run their own com- 
mercial enterprises. The Harvester Company, for ex- 
ample, would n't duplicate its own plant right in the 
same territory. That would be waste. But in many 
cities possessing more than one library, duplication of 
an exactly parallel kind goes on, because the libraries do 
not work together. Boston affords a good example. 
Between the Boston Public Library, the Athenoeum, and 
the library of Harvard University, there is much dupli- 
cation. Of course a university library is obliged to 
stand more or less alone, but it is possible even for such 
a library to cooperate to some extent with others, and, 
wherever it is possible to do so, the library of the 
University of Chicago does work with others in Chi- 
cago. Even the Art Institute is in the combina- 
tion." 

I do not quote this Information because the arrange- 
ment between the libraries of Chicago strikes me as a 
thing particularly startling, but for precisely the oppo- 
site reason: It is one of those unstartling examples of 
uncommon common sense which one might easily over- 
look in considering the Plan of Chicago, in gazing at 
great buildings wreathed in whirling smoke, or in con- 
templating that allegory of infinity which confronts one 
who looks eastward from the bold front of Michigan 
Avenue along Grant Park. 

190 



J 



LOOKING BACKWARD 

The automobile, which has been such an agency for 
the promotion of suburban and country Hfe, seems 
to have the habit of invacHng, for its own commercial 
purposes, those former residence districts, in cities, 
which it has been the means of depopulating. I noticed 
that in Cleveland. There the automobile offered the 
residents of Euclid Avenue a swift and agreeable means 
of transportation to a pleasanter environment. Then, 
having lured them away, it proceeded to seize upon 
their former lands for showrooms, garages, and auto- 
mobile accessory shops. The same thing has happened 
in Chicago on Michigan Avenue, where an "automobile 
row" extends for blocks beyond the uptown extremity 
of Grant Park, through a region which but a few years 
since was one of fashionable residences. 

I do not like to make the admission, because of loyal 
memories of the old South Side, but — there is no den}^- 
ing it — the South Side has run down. In its struggle 
with the North Side, for leadership, it has come off a 
sorry second. In point of social prestige, as in the 
matter of beauty, it is unqualifiedly whipped. Cottage 
Grove Avenue, never a pleasant street, has deteriorated 
now into something which, along certain reaches, has a 
painful resemblance to a slum. 

It hurt me to see that, for I remember when the little 
dummy line ran out from Thirty-ninth Street to Hyde 
Park, most of the way between fields and woods and 
little farms. I had forgotten the dummy line until I 
saw the place from which it used to start. Then, back 

191 



ABROAD AT HOME 

through twenty-eight or thirty years, I heard again its 
shrill whistle and saw the conductor, little "Mister 
Dodge," as he used to come around for fares, when we 
were going out to Fifty-fifth Street to pick violets. 
There are no violets now at Fifty-fifth Street. I saw 
nothing there but rows of sordid-looking buildings, 
jammed against the street. 

Everywhere, as I journeyed about the city how many 
memories assailed me. When I lived in Chicago the 
Masonic Temple was the great show building of the 
town: the highest building in the world, it was, then. 
The Art Institute was in the brown stone pile now oc- 
cupied by the Chicago Club. The turreted stone house 
of Potter Palmer, on the Lake Shore Drive was the 
city's most admired residence — a would-be baronial 
structure which, standing there to-day, is a humorous 
thing : a grandiose attempt, falling far short of being a 
good castle, and going far beyond the architectural 
bounds of a good house. Then there was the old Pal- 
mer House hotel, with its great billiard and poolroom, 
and its once-famous barbershop, with a silver dollar set 
at the corner of each marble tile in its floor, to amaze 
the rural visitor. The Palmer House is still there, 
looking no older than it used to look. And most fa- 
miliar of all, the toy suburban trains of the Illinois Cen- 
trail Railroad continue to puff, importantly, along the 
lake front, their locomotives issuing great clouds of 
steam and smoke, which are snatched by the lake wind, 
and hurled like giant snowballs — dirty snowballs, full of 

192 




As I stood there, studying the temperament of pigs, I saw the 
butcher looking up at me. ... I have never seen such eyes 



LOOKING BACKWARD 

cinders — at the imperturbable stone front of Michigan 
Avenue. 

Chicago has talked, for years, of causing the Illinois 
Central Railroad to run its trains by electricity. No 
doubt they should be run in that way. No doubt the 
decline of the South Side and the ascendancy of the 
North Side has been caused largely by the fact that the 
South Side lakefront is taken up with tracks and trains, 
while the North Side lakefront is taken up with parks 
and boulevards. Still, I love the Chicago smoke. In 
some other city I should not love it, but in Chicago it is 
part of the old picture, and for sentimental reasons, 
I had rather pay the larger laundry bills, than see it 

go- 
One day I went down to the station at Van Buren 

Street, and took the funny little train to Oakland, where 
I used to live. One after the other, I passed the old, 
dilapidated stations, looking more run down than ever. 
Even the Oakland Station was unchanged, and its sur- 
roundings were as I remembered them, except for signs 
of a sad, indefinite decay. 

Strange sensations, those which come to a man when 
he visits, after a long lapse of years, the places he knew 
best in childhood. The changes. The things which 
are unchanged. The familiar unfamiliarity. The 
vivid recollections which loom suddenly, like silent ships, 
from out the fog of things forgotten. In that house 
over there lived a boy named Ben Ford, who moved 
away — to where? And Gertie Hoyt, his cousin, lived 

193 



ABROAD AT HOME 

next door. She had a great thick braid of golden hair. 
But where is Guy Hardy's house? Where is the 
Lonergans' — the Lonergans who used to have the 
goat and wagon? How can those houses be so 
completely gone? Were they not built o£ timber? 
And what is memory built of, that it should outlast 
them? Mr. Rand's house — there it is, with its high 
porch! But where are the cherry trees? Where 
is the round flower bed ? And what on earth have they 
been doing to the neighborhood? Why have they 
moved all the houses closer to the street and spoiled the 
old front yards? Then the heartshaking realiza- 
tion that they had n't moved the houses ; that the yards 
were the same; that they had always been small and 
cramped; that the only change was in the eye of him 
who had come back. 

No; not the only change, but the great one. Almost 
all the linden trees that formed a line beside my grand- 
father's house are gone. The four which remain 
are n't large trees, after all. 

The vacant lot next door is blotted out by a row of 
cheap apartment houses. But there is the Borden 
house standing stanch, solid, austere as ever, behind its 
iron fence. How afraid we used to be of Mr. Borden ! 
Can he be living still? And has he mellowed in old 
age? — for the spite fence is torn down! Next door, 
there, is the house in which I went to my first party 
— in a velveteen suit and wide lace collar. There was 
a lady at that party; she wore a velvet dress and was 

194 



LOOKING BACKWARD 

the most beautiful lady that I ever saw. She is several 
times a grandmother now — still beautiful. 

The gentleman who owns the house in which I used 
to live had heard I was in town, and was so kind as to 
think that it would interest me to see the place again. 

I never was more grateful to a man! 

The house was not so large as I had thought it. The 
majestic ''parlor" had shrunk from an enormous to a 
normal room. But there was the wide hardwood ban- 
ister rail, down which I used to slide, and there was 
the alcove, off the big front bedroom, where they put 
me when I had the accident; and there was the place 
where my crib stood. I had forgotten all about that 
crib, but suddenly I saw it, with its inclosing sides of 
walnut slats. However, it was not until I mounted to 
the attic that the strangest memories besieged me. The 
instant I entered the attic I knew the smell. In all the 
world there is no smell exactly like the smell which 
haunts the attic of that house. With it there came to 
me the picture of old Ellen and the recollection of a 
rainy day, when she set me to work in the attic, driving 
tacks into cakes of laundry soap. That was the day I 
fell downstairs and broke my collarbone. 

Leaving the house I went out to the alley. Ah ! those 
beloved back fences and the barns in which we used to 
play. Where were the old colored coachmen who were 
so good to us? Where was little Ed, ex-jockey, and 
ex-slave? Where was Artis? Where was William? 
William must be getting old. 

195 



ABROAD AT HOME 

At the door of his barn I paused and, not without 
some faint feeling of fear, knocked. The door opened. 
A young colored man stood within. He wore a chauf- 
feur's cap. So the old surrey was gone! There was 
a motor now. 

"Where's William?" I asked. 

''William ain't here no more," he said. 

''But where is he?" 

"Oh, he 's most generally around the alley, some 
place, or in some of the houses. He does odd jobs." 

"Thanks," I said and, turning, walked up the alley, 
fearing lest I should not be able to find the old colored 
man who, perhaps more than any one outside my family, 
was the true friend of my boyhood. 

Then, as I moved along, I saw him far away and 
recognized him by the familiar, slouching step. And 
as I walked to meet him, and as we drew near to each 
other in that long narrow alley, it seemed to me that 
here was another allegory in which the alley somehow 
represented life. 

How glad we were to meet! William looked older, 
his close-cropped wool was whiter, he stooped a little 
more, but he had the same old solemn drawl, the same 
lustrous dark eye with the twinkle in it, even the same 
old corncob pipe — or another like it, burned down at 
the edge. 

We stood there for a long time, exchanging news. 
Ed had gone down South with the Bakers when they 
moved away. Artis was on "the force." 

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LOOKING BACKWARD 

'The neighborhood 's changed a good bit since you 
was here. Lots of the old famihes have gone. I 'm 
ahiiost a stranger around the alley myself now. I must 
be a pretty tough old nut, the way I keep hangin' on." 
He smiled as he said that. 

"Of course I '11 see you when I come out to Chicago 
again," I said as we shook hands at parting. 

William looked up at the sky, much as a man will 
look for signs of rain. Then with another smile he let 
his eyes drift slowly downward from the heavens. 

"Well," he said in his nasal drawl, "I guess I '11 see 
you again some time — some place." 

I turned and moved away. 

Then, of a sudden, a back gate swung open with a 
violent bang against the fence, and four or five boys in 
short trousers leaped out and ran, yelling, helter-skelter 
up the alley. 

I had the curious feeling that among them was the 
boy I used to be. 



197 



'IN MIZZOURA" 



CHAPTER XVII 
SOMNOLENT ST. LOUIS 

"The moderation of prosperous people comes from the 
calm which good fortune gives to their temper." 

— La Rochefoucauld. 

SOME years ago, while riding westward through 
the Alleghenies in an observation car o£ the 
Pennsylvania Limited, a friend of mine fell into 
conversation with an old gentleman who sat in the next 
chair. 

"Evidently he knew a good deal about that region," 
said my friend, in telling me of the incident later. ''We 
must have sat there together for a couple of hours. He 
did most of the talking; I could see that he enjoyed talk- 
ing, and was glad to have a listener. Before he got off 
he shook hands with me and said he was glad to have 
had the little chat. Then, when he was gone, the train- 
man came and asked me if I knew who he was. I 
did n't. Come to find out, it was Andrew Carnegie." 

I asked my friend how Mr. Carnegie impressed him. 

"Oh," he replied, "I was much surprised when I found 
it had been he. He seemed a nice old fellow enousfh, 
kindly and aft'able, but a little commonplace. I should 
never have called him an 'inspired millionaire.' I 've 
been reconstructing him in my mind ever since." 

201 



ABROAD AT HOME 

I am reminded of my friend's experience by my own 
meeting with the city of St. Louis ; for it was not until 
after I had left St. Louis that I found out "who it is." 
That is, I failed to focus, while there, upon the fact that 
it is America's fourth city. And now, in looking back, 
I feel about St. Louis as my friend felt about the iron- 
master : I do not think it looks the part. 

St. Louis leads the world in shoes, stoves, and to- 
bacco; it is the world's greatest market for hardware, 
lumber, and raw furs ; it is the principal horse and mule 
market in America; it builds more street and railroad 
cars than any other city in the country; it distributes 
more coffee; it makes more woodenware, more native 
chemicals, more beer. It leads in all these things. But 
what it does not do is to look as though it led. Physi- 
cally it is a great, overgrown American town, like Buf- 
falo or St. Paul. Its streets are, for the most part, 
lacking in distinction. There is no center at which a 
visitor might stop, knowing by instinct that he was at 
the city's heart. It is a rambling, incoherent place, in 
which one has to ask which is the principal retail shop- 
ping corner. Fancy having to ask a thing like that ! 

I do not mean by this that St. Louis is much worse, 
in appearance, than some other American cities. For 
American cities, as I have said before, have only re- 
cently awakened to the need of broadly planned munici- 
pal beauty. All I mean is that St. Louis seems to be 
behind in taking action to improve herself. 

Almost every city presents a paradox, if you will but 

202 



I 



SOMNOLENT ST. LOUIS 

find it. The St. Louis paradox is that she is a fashion- 
able city without style. But that is not, in reality, the 
paradox, it seems. It only means that being an old, 
aristocratic city, with a wealthy and cosmopolitan popu- 
lation, and an extraordinarily cultivated social life, St. 
Louis yet lacks municipal distinction. It is a dowdy 
city. It needs to be taken by the hand and led around 
to some municipal-improvement tailor, some civic haber- 
dasher, who will dress it like the gentleman it really is. 
I remember a well-to-do old man who used to be like 
that. His daughters were obliged to drag him down to 
get new clothes. Always he insisted that the old frock 
coat was plenty good enough ; that he could n't spare 
time and the money for a new one. Nevertheless, he 
could well afford new clothes, and so can St. Louis. 
The city debt is relatively small, and there are only two 
American cities of over 350,000 population which have 
a lower tax-rate. These two are San Francisco and 
Cleveland. And either one of them can set a good ex- 
ample to St. Louis, in the matter of self-improvement. 
San Francisco, with a population hardly more than half 
that of St. Louis, is yet an infinitely more important- 
looking city; while Minneapolis or Denver might im- 
press a casual visitor, roaming their streets, as being 
equal to St. Louis in commerce and population, although 
the Missouri metropolis is, in reality, considerably 
greater than the two combined. However, in consider- 
ing the foibles of an old city we should be lenient, as in 
considering those of an old man. 

203 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Old men and old cities did not enjoy, in their youth, 
the advantages which are enjoyed to-day by young men 
and young cities. Life was harder, and precedent, in 
many lines, was wanting. Excepting in a few rare in- 
stances, as, for example, in Detroit and Savannah, the 
laying out of cities seems to have been taken care of, in 
the early days, as much by cows as men. Look at Bos- 
ton, or lower New York, or St. Paul, or St. Louis. 
How little did the men who founded those cities dream 
of the proportions to which they would some day attain ! 
With cities which have begun to develop within the last 
fifty or sixty years, it has been different, for there has 
been precedent to show them wdiat is possible when an 
American city really starts to grow. To-day all Ameri- 
can cities, even down to the smallest towns, have a 
sneaking suspicion that they may some day become 
great, too — great, that is, by comparison with what they 
are. And those which are not altogether lacking in 
energy are prepared, at least in a small way, to en- 
counter greatness when, at last, it comes. 

Baedeker says St. Louis was founded as a fur-trading 
station by the French in 1756. "All About St. Louis," 
a publication compiled by the St. Louis Advertising 
Men's League, gives the date 1764. Pierre Laclede was 
the founder, and it is interesting to note that some of his 
descendants still reside there. 

When Louis XV ceded the territory to the east of the 
Mississippi to the English, he also ceded the west bank 
to Spain by secret treaty. Spanish authority was estab- 

204 




The dilapidation of tlie quarter lias continued steadily from Dickens's day 
to this, and the beauty now to be discovered there is that of decay and ruin 



I 



SOMNOLENT ST. LOUIS 

lished in St. Louis in 1770, but in 1804 the town became 
a part of the United States, as a portion of the Lou- 
isiana Purchase. 

In the old days the city had but three streets: the 
Rue Royale, one block back from the levee (now Main 
Street); the Rue de rEghse, or Church Street (now 
Second) ; and the Rue des Granges, or Barn Street (now 
Third). 

Though a few of the old French houses, in a woeful 
state of dilapidation, may still be seen in this neighbor- 
hood, it is now for the most part given over to commis- 
sion merchants, warehouses, and slums. 

Charles Dickens, writing of St. Louis in 1842, de- 
scribes this cjuarter : 

"In the old French portion of the town the thorough- 
fares are narrow and crooked, and some of the houses 
are very quaint and picturesque: being built of wood, 
with tumble-down galleries before the windows, ap- 
proachable by stairs or rather ladders from the street. 
There are cjueer little barbers' shops and drinking 
houses, too, in this quarter; and abundance of crazy old 
tenements with blinking casements, such as may be seen 
in Flanders. Some of these ancient habitations, with 
high garret gable windows perking into the roofs, have 
a kind of French shrug about them ; and, being lopsided 
with age, appear to hold their heads askew, besides, as 
if they were grimacing in astonishment at the American 
improvements. 

205 



ABROAD AT HOME 

'Tt is hardly necessary to say that these consist of 
wharves and warehouses and new buildings in all direc- 
tions; and of a great many vast plans which are still 
'progressing.' Already, however, some very good 
houses, broad streets, and marble-fronted shops have 
gone so far ahead as to be in a state of completion, and 
the town bids fair in a few years to improve consid- 
erably; though it is not likely ever to vie, in point of 
elegance or beauty, with Cincinnati. . . . The Roman 
Catholic religion, introduced here by the early French 
settlers, prevails extensively. Among the public insti- 
tutions are a Jesuit college, a convent for 'the Ladies of 
the Sacred Heart,' and a large chapel attached to the 
college, which was in course of erection at the time of 
my visit. . . . The architect of this building is one of 
the reverend fathers. . . . The organ will be sent from 
Belgium. ... In addition to these establishments there 
is a Roman Catholic cathedral. 

"No man ever admits the unhealthiness of the place 
he dwells in (unless he is going away from it), and I 
shall therefore, I have no doubt, be at issue w^ith the 
inhabitants of St. Louis in questioning the perfect sa- 
lubrity of its climate. ... It is very hot . . ." 

The cathedral of which Dickens wrote remains, per- 
haps, the most sturdy building in the section which 
forms the old town. It is a venerable-looking pile of 
gray granite, built to last forever, and suggesting, with 
its French inscriptions and its exotic look, a bit of old 

206 



SOMNOLENT ST. LOUIS 

Quebec. But for the most part the dilapidation of the 
quarter has continued steadily from Dickens's day to 
this, and the beauty now to be discovered there is that 
of decay and ruin — pathetic beauty to charm the etcher, 
but sadden the lover of improvement, whose battle cry 
invariably involves the overworked word "civic." 

An exception to the general slovenliness of this quar- 
ter is to be seen in the old Merchants' Exchange Hall 
on Main Street. Built nearly sixty years ago, this 
building, now disused and dilapidated, nevertheless 
shows a fagade of a distinction rare in structures of its 
time. I was surprised to discover that this old hall was 
not better known in St. Louis, and I cheerfully recom- 
mend it to the notice of those who esteem the architec- 
ture of the Jefferson Memorial, the bulky new cathedral 
on Lindell Boulevard, or that residence, suggestive of 
the hanging gardens of Babylon, at Hortense Place and 
King's Highway. Take the old Merchants' Exchange 
Hall away from dirty, cobbled Main Street, set it up, 
instead, in Venice, beside the Grand Canal, and watch 
the tourist from St. Louis stop his gondola to gaze! 

But what city has respected its ruins? Rome used 
her palaces as mines for building material. St. Louis 
destroyed the wonderful old mound which used to stand 
at the corner of Mound Street and Broadway, forming 
one of the most interesting archeological remains in the 
country and, together with smaller mounds near by, giv- 
ing St. Louis her title of "Mound City." 

With Dickens's statements concerning the St. Louis 

207 



ABROAD AT HOME 

summer climate, the publication, "All About St. Louis," 
does not, for one moment, agree. In it I find an article 
headed: ''St. Louis has Better Weather than Other 
Cities," the preamble to which contains the following 
solemn truth: 

The weather question is purely local and individual. 
Every person forms his own opinion about the weather 
by the way it affects him, wherever he happens to be. 

Having made that clear, the writer becomes more 
specific. He informs us that, in St. Louis, "the pre- 
vailing winds in summer blow over the Ozark Moun- 
tains, insuring cool nights and pleasant days." Also 
that "during the summer the temperature does not run 
so high, and warm spells do not last so long as in many 
cities of the North." The latter statement is supported 
— as almost every statement in the world, it seems to 
me, can be supported — by statistics. What wonderful 
things statistics are! How I wish Charles Dickens 
might have seen these. How surprised he would have 
been. How surprised I was — for I, too, have visited 
St. Louis in the middle of the year. Yes, and so has my 
companion. He went to St. Louis several years ago to 
attend the Democratic National Convention, but he is 
all right again now. 

I showed him the statistics. 

"Why!" he cried. "I ought to have been told of this 
before!" 

"What for?" I demanded. 

208 



SOMNOLENT ST. LOUIS 

"If I had had this information at the time of the con- 
vention," he declared, "I 'd have known enough not to 
have been laid up in bed for six weeks with heat pros- 
tration." 

Though the downtown portion of St. Louis is, as I 
have said, lacking in coherence and distinction, there 
are, nevertheless, a number of buildings in that section 
which are, for one reason or another, notable. The old 
Courthouse, on Chestnut and Market Streets, between 
Fourth and Fifth, is getting well along toward its cen- 
tennial, and is interesting, both as a dignified old granite 
pile and as the scene of the whipping post, and of slave 
sales which were held upon its steps during the Civil 
War. 

Not far from the old Courthouse stands another 
building typifying all that is modern — the largest office 
building in the world, a highly creditable structure, oc- 
cupying an entire city block, built from designs by St. 
Louis architects : Mauran, Russell & Crowell. Another 
building, notable for its beauty, is the Central Public 
Library, a very simple, well-proportioned building of 
gray granite, designed by Cass Gilbert. 

The St. Louis Union Station is interesting for several 
reasons. When built, it was the largest station in the 
world — one of the first great stations of the modern 
type. It contains, under its roof, five and a half miles 
of track, and though it has been surpassed, architec- 
turally, by some more recent stations, it is still a spec- 

209 



ABROAD AT HOME 

tacular building — or rather it would be, were it not for 
its setting, among narrow streets, lined with cheap 
saloons, lunch rooms, and lodging houses. That any 
city capable of building such a splendid terminal could, 
at the same time, be capable of leaving it in such en- 
vironment is a thing baffling to the comprehension. It 
must, however, be said that efforts have been made to 
improve this condition. Six or seven years ago the 
Civic League proposed to buy the property facing the 
station and turn it into a park. St. Louis somnolence 
defeated this project. The City Plan Commission now 
has a more elaborate suggestion which, if accepted, will 
not only place the station in a proper setting, but also 
reclaim a large area, in the geographical center of the 
city, which has suffered a blight, and which is steadily 
deteriorating, although through it run the chief lines of 
travel between the business and residence portions of 
the city. 

This project, if put through, will be a fine step toward 
the creation, in downtown St. Louis, of some outward 
indication of the real importance of the city. The plan 
involves the gutting of a strip, one block wide and two 
miles long; the tearing out of everything between Mar- 
ket and Chestnut Streets, all the way from Twelfth 
Street, which is the eastern boundary of the City Hall 
Square, to Grand Avenue on the west. Here it is pro- 
posed to construct a Central Traffic Parkway, which will 
pass directly in front of the station, connecting it with 
both the business and residence districts, and will also 

2IO 



II 



SOMNOLENT ST. LOUIS 

pass in front of the Municipal Court Building and the 
City Hall, located farther downtown. The plan in- 
volves an arrangement similar to that of the Champs- 
Elysees, with a wide central drive, parked on either side, 
for swift-moving vehicles, and exterior roads for heavy 
traffic. 

An expert in such work has said that "city plan- 
ning has few functions more important than the restora- 
tion of impaired property values." American cities are 
coming to comprehend that investment in intelligently 
planned improvements, such as this, have to do not only 
with city dignity and city self-respect, but that they pay 
for themselves. If St. Louis wants to find that out, she 
has but to visit her western neighbor, Kansas City, 
where the construction of Paseo boulevard did redeem a 
blighted district, transforming it into an excellent neigh- 
borhood, doubling or trebling the value of adjacent 
property, and, of course, yielding the city increased 
revenue from taxes. 

A matter more deplorable than the setting of the sta- 
tion is the unparalleled situation which exists with re- 
gard to the Free Bridge. Though the echoes of this 
scandal have been heard, more or less, throughout the 
country, it is perhaps necessary to give a brief summary 
of the matter as it stands at present. 

. The three used bridges which cross the Mississippi 
River at St. Louis are privately controlled toll bridges. 
Working people, passing to and fro, are obliged to pay 
a five-cent toll in excess of car fare. Goods are also 

211 



ABROAD AT HOME 

taxed. It was with the purpose of defeating this 
monopoly that the Free Bridge was constructed. But 
after the body of the bridge was built, factional fights 
developed as to the placing of approaches, and as a re- 
sult, the approaches have never been built. Thus, the 
bridge stands to-day, as it has stood for several years, a 
thing costly, grotesque, and useless, spanning the river, 
its two ends jutting out, inanely, over the opposing 
shores. In the meantime the city is paying interest on 
the bridge bonds at the rate of something over $300 per 
day. The question of approaches has come before the 
city at several elections, but the people have so far failed 
to vote the necessary bonds. The history of the voting 
on this subject plainly shows indifference. In one elec- 
tion the Twenty-eighth Ward, which is the rich and 
fashionable ward, cast only 2,325 votes, on the bridge 
question, out of a possible 6,732. Had the eligible 
voters of this ward, alone, done their duty, the issue 
would have been carried at the time, and the bridge 
would now be in operation. 

One becomes accustomed to exhibitions of municipal 
indifference upon matters involving questions like re- 
form, which, though they are not really abstract, often 
seem so to the average voter. Reforms are, relatively 
at least, invisible things. But the Free Bridge is not 
invisible. Far from it! There it stands above the 
stream, a grim, gargantuan joke, for every man to see 
— a tin can tied to a city's tail. 

In writing of St. Louis I feel, somehow, like a man 

212 




The three used bridges which ctdss tlie Mississippi River at 
St. Louis are privately controlled toll bridges 



SOMNOLENT ST. LOUIS 

who has been at a delightful house party where people 
have been very kind to him, and who, when he goes 
away, promulgates unpleasant truths about bad plumb- 
ing in the house. Yet, of course, St. Louis is a public 
place, to which I went with the avowed purpose of writ- 
ing my impressions. The reader may be glad, at 
this point, to learn that some of my impressions are 
of a pleasant nature. But before I reach them I 
must rake a little further through this substance, 
which, I am becoming very much afraid, resembles 
"muck." 

St. Louis has, for some time, been involved in a fight 
with the United Railways Company, a corporation con- 
trolling the street car system of the city. In one quar- 
ter I was informed that this company was paying 
dividends on millions of watered stock, and that it had 
been reported by the Public Service Commission as 
earning more than a million a year in excess of a rea- 
sonable return on its investment. In another quarter, 
while it was not denied that the company was overbur- 
dened with obligations representing much more than 
the actual value of the present system, it was explained 
that the so-called "water" represented the cost of the 
early horse-car system, discarded on the advent of the 
cable lines, and also the cost of the cable lines which 
were, in turn, discarded for the trolley. It was fur- 
thermore contended that, in the days before the forma- 
tion of the United Railways Company, when several 
companies were striving for territory, the street rail- 

213 



ABROAD AT HOME 

roads of St. Louis were overbuilt, with the result that 
much money was sunk. 

In an article on St. Louis, recently published in 
''Collier's Weekly," I made the statement that the street 
car service of St. Louis was as bad as I had ever seen ; 
that the tracks were rough, the cars run-down and dirty, 
and that an antediluvian heating system was used, 
namely, a red-hot stove at one end of the car, giving 
but small comfort to those far removed from it, and 
fairly cooking those who sat near. 

This statement brought some protest from St. Louis. 
Several persons wrote to me saying that the cars were 
not dirty, that only a few of them were heated with 
stoves, and that the tracks were in good condition. 
With one of these correspondents, Mr. Walter B. 
Stevens, I exchanged several letters. I informed him 
that I had ridden in five different cars, that all five were 
heated as mentioned, that they were dirty and needed 
painting, and that I recalled distinctly the fact that 
the rail-joints caused a continual jarring of the 
car. 

Mr. Stevens replied as follows: 

"In your street car trip to the southwestern part of the 
city you saw probably the worst part of the system. 
Some of the lines, notably those in the section of the 
city mentioned by you, have not been brought up to the 
standard that prevails elsewhere. I have traveled on 
street cars in most of the large cities of this country, 
north and south, and according to my observation, the 

214 



SOMNOLENT ST. LOUIS 

lines in the central part of St. Louis, extending west- 
ward, are not surpassed anywhere." 

As I have reason to know that Mr. Stevens is an ex- 
ceedingly fair-minded gentleman, I am glad of the op- 
portunity to print his statement here. I must add, how- 
ever, that I think a street car system on which a stranger, 
taking five different cars, finds them all heated by stoves, 
leaves something to be desired. Let me say further 
that I might not have been so critical of the St. Louis 
street railways and its cars, had I not become ac- 
quainted, a short time before, with the Twin City Rapid 
Transit Company, which operates the street railways 
of Minneapolis and St. Paul: a system which, as a casual 
observer, I should call the most perfect of its kind I 
have seen in the United States. 



"What is the matter with St. Louis?" I inquired of a 
wide-awake citizen I met. 

"Oh, the Drew Question," he suggested with a smile. 
'The Drew Question ?" I repeated blankly. 

"You don't know about that ? Well, the question you 
asked was put to the city, some years ago, by Alderman 
Drew, so instead of asking it outright any more, we re- 
fer to it as 'the Drew Question.' Every one knows what 
it means." 

The man who asks that question in St. Louis will re- 
ceive a wide variety of answers. 

One exceedingly well-informed gentleman told me 

215 



ABROAD AT HOME 

that St. Louis had the "most aggressive minority" he 
had ever seen. "Start any movement here," he de- 
clared, "and, whatever it may be, you immediately en- 
counter strong objection." 

In other quarters I learned of something called "The 
Big Cinch" — an intangible, reactionary sort of dragon, 
said to be built of big business men. It is charged that 
this legendary monster has put the quietus upon various 
enterprises, including the construction of a new and 
first-class hotel — something which St. Louis needs. In 
still other quarters I was informed that the city's long- 
established wealth had placed it in somewhat the posi- 
tion of Detroit before the days of the automobile, and 
that much of the money and many of the big business 
enterprises were controlled by elderly men; in short, 
that what is needed is young blood, or, as one man put 
it, "a few important funerals." 

"It is conservatism," explained another. "The trou- 
ble with St. Louis is that nobody here ever goes crazy." 
And said still another : "About one-third of the popula- 
tion of St. Louis is German. It is German lethargy that 
holds the city back." 

Whatever truth may lurk in these several statements, 
I do not, personally, believe in the last one. If the Ger- 
mans are sometimes stolid, they are upon the other hand 
honest, thoughtful, and steady. And when it comes to 
lethargy — well, Chicago, the most active great city in 
the country, has a large German population. And, for 
the matter of that, so has Berlin ! Some of the best citi- 

216 



1 



SOMNOLENT ST. LOUIS 

zens St. Louis has are Germans, and one of her most pub- 
Hc-spirited and nationally distinguished men was born in 
Prussia — Mr. Frederick W. Lehmann, former Solicitor 
General of the United States and ex-president of the 
American Bar Association. Mr. Lehmann (who 
served the country as a commissioner in the cause 
of peace with Mexico, at the Niagara Falls conference) 
drew up a city charter which was recommended by the 
Board of Freeholders of St. Louis in 1910. This char- 
ter was defeated. However, another charter, embody- 
ing many even more progressive elements than those 
contained in the charter proposed by Mr. Lehmann, has 
lately been accepted by the city, and there can be little 
doubt that the earlier proposals paved the way for this 
one. The new charter had not been passed at the time 
of my visit. The St. Louis newspapers which I have 
seen since are, however, most sanguine in their prophe- 
cies as to what will be accomplished under it. All seem 
to agree that its acceptance marks the awakening of the 
city. 

German emigration to St. Louis began about 1820 
and increased at the time of the rebellion of 1848, so 
that, like Milwaukee, St. Louis has to-day a very strong 
German flavor. By the terms of the city charter all 
ordinances and municipal legal advertising are printed 
in both English and German, and the ''Westliche Post" 
of St. Louis, a German newspaper founded by the late 
Emil Pretorius and now conducted by his son, is a pow- 
erful organ. The great family beer halls of the city 

217 



ABROAD AT HOME 

add further Teutonic color, and the Liederkranz is, I 
beHeve, the largest club in the city. This organization 
is not much like a club according to the restricted Eng- 
lish idea; it suggests some great, genial public gather- 
ing place. The substantial German citizens who arrive 
here of a Sunday night, when the cook goes out, do not 
come alone, nor merely with their sons, but bring their 
entire families for dinner, including the mother, the 
daughters, and the little children. There is music, of 
course, and great contentment. The place breathes of 
substantiality, democracy, and good nature. You feel 
it even in the manner of the waiters, who, being first of 
all human beings, second, Germans, and waiters only in 
the third place, have an air of personal friendliness with 
those they serve. 

Aside from his municipal and national activities, Mr. 
Lehmann has found time to gather in his home one of 
the most complete collections of Dickens's first editions 
and related publications to be found in the whole world. 
It is, indeed, on this side — the side of cultivation — that 
St. Louis is most truly charming. She has an old, ex- 
clusive, and delightful society, and a widespread and 
pleasantly unostentatious interest in esthetic things. In 
fact, I do not know of any American city, to which St. 
Louis may with justice be compared, possessing a larger 
body of collectors, nor collections showing more in- 
dividual taste. The most important private collections 
in the city are, I believe, those of Mr. William K. Bixby, 

218 



SOMNOLENT ST. LOUIS 

who owns a great number of valuable paintings by old 
masters, and a large collection of rare books and manu- 
scripts. As a book collector, Mr. Bixby is widely known 
throughout the country, and he has had, if I mistake 
not, the honor of being president of that Chicago club 
of bibliolatrists, known as the "Dofobs," or "damned 
old fools over books." 

An exhibition of paintings owned in St. Louis is held 
annually in the St. Louis Museum of Art, and leaves no 
doubt as to the genuineness of the interest of St. Louis 
citizens in painting. Nor can any one, considering the 
groups of canvases loaned to the museum for the annual 
exhibition, doubt that certain art collectors in St. Louis 
(Mr. Edward A. Faust, for example) are buying not 
only names but paintings. 

The Art Museum is less accessible to the general citi- 
zen than are museums in some other cities. Having 
been originally the central hall of the group of buildings 
devoted to art at the time of the Louisiana Purchase 
Exposition, it stands in that part of Forest Park which 
was formerly the Fair ground. Posed, as it is, upon a 
hill, in a commanding and conspicuous position, it re- 
veals, somewhat unfortunately, the fact that it is the 
isolated fragment of a former group. Nevertheless, it 
must take a high place among the secondary art mu- 
seums of the United States. For despite the embarrass- 
ment caused by the possession of a good deal of mediocre 
sculpture, a legacy from the World's Fair, which is 
packed in its central hall; and despite the inheritance, 

219 



ABROAD AT HOME 

from twenty or twenty-five years since, of vapid can- 
vases by Bouguereau, Gabriel Max, and other painters 
of past popularity, whose works are rapidly coming to 
be known for what they are — despite these handicaps, 
the museum is now distinctly in step with the march of 
modern art. The old collection is being weeded out, and 
good judgment is being shown in the selection of new 
canvases. Like the Albright Gallery in Buffalo, the St. 
Louis Museum of Art is rapidly acquiring works by 
some of the best American painters of to-day, having 
purchased within the last four or five years canvases by 
Redfield, Loeb, Symons, Waugh, Dearth, Dougherty, 
Foster, and others. 

Another building saved from the World's Fair is the 
superb central hall of Washington University, a red 
granite structure in the English collegiate style, designed 
by Cope & Stewardson. The dozen or more buildings 
of this university are very fine in their harmony, and 
are pronounced by Baedeker "certainly the most suc- 
cessful and appropriate group of collegiate buildings in 
the New World." 

It is curious to note in this connection that there are 
eight colleges or universities in the United States in 
which the name of "Washington" appears; among them, 
Washington University at St. Louis; Washington Col- 
lege at Chestertown, Md. ; George Washington Univer- 
sity at Washington, D. C. ; Washington State College at 
Pullman, Wash., and the University of Washington at 
Seattle. 

220 



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CHAPTER XVIII 
THE FINER SIDE 

BEFORE making my transcontinental pilgrimage 
I used to wonder, sometimes, just where the line 
dividing East from West in the United States 
might be. When I lived in Chicago, and went out to 
St. Louis, I felt that I was going, not merely in a west- 
erly direction, but that I was actually going out into the 
"West." I knew, of course, that there was a vast 
amount of "West" lying beyond St. Louis, but I had no 
real conception — and no one who has not seen it can 
have — of what a stupendous, endless, different kind of 
land it is. St. Louis west ? It is not west at all. To be 
sure, it is the frontier, the jumping-off place, but it is no 
more western in its characteristics than the city of 
Boulogne is English because it faces England, just 
across the way. From every point of view ex- 
cept that of geography, Chicago is more western 
than St. Louis. For Chicago has more "wallop" 
than St. Louis, and "wallop" is essentially a western 
attribute. "Wallop" St. Louis has not. What she 
has is civilization and the eastern spirit of laissez- 
faire. And that of St. Louis which is not of the 
east is of the south. Her society has a strong southern 

221 



ABROAD AT HOME 

flavor, many of her leading families having come orig- 
inally from Kentucky and Virginia. The Southern 
"colonel" type is to be found there, too — black, broad- 
brimme-d hat, frock coat, goatee, and all — and there is a 
negro population big enough to give him his customary 
background. 

Much negro labor is employed for the rougher kind 
of work; colored waiters serve in the hotels, and many 
families employ colored servants. As is usual in cities 
where this is true, the accent of the people inclines some- 
what to be southern. Or, perhaps, it is a blending of 
the accent of the south with the sharper drawl of the 
west. Then, too, I encountered there men bearing 
French names (which are pronounced in the French 
manner, although the city's name has been anglicized, 
being pronounced "Saint Louiss") who, if they did not 
speak with a real French accent, had, at least, slight 
mannerisms of speech which were unmistakably of 
French origin. I noted down a number of French 
family names I heard: Chauvenet, Papin, Valle, Des- 
loge, De Menil, Lucas, Pettus, Guion, Chopin, Janis, 
Benoist, Cabanne, and Chouteau — the latter family de- 
scended, I was told, from Laclede himself. And again, 
I heard such names as Busch, Lehmann, Faust, and 
Niedringhaus ; and still again such other names as Kil- 
patrick, Farrell, and O'Fallon — for St. Louis, though a 
Southern city, and an Eastern city, and a French city, 
and a German city, by being also Irish, proves herself 
American. 

222 



THE FINER SIDE 

It is in all that has to do with family life that St. 
Louis comes off best. She has miles upon miles of pros- 
perous-looking, middle-class residence streets, and the 
system of residence "places" in her more fashionable 
districts is highly characteristic. These "places" are in 
reality long, narrow parkways, with double drives, 
parked down the center, and bordered with houses at 
their outer margins. The oldest of them is, I am told, 
Benton Place, on the South Side, but the more attractive 
ones are to the westward, near Forest Park. Of these 
the first was Vandeventer Place, which still contains 
some of the most pleasant and substantial residences of 
the city, and it may be added that while some of the 
newer ''places" have more recent and elaborate houses 
than those on Vandeventer Place, the general average of 
recent domestic architecture in St. Louis is behind that 
of many other cities. Portland Place seemed, upon the 
whole, to have the best group of modern houses. West- 
moreland and Kingsbury Places also have agreeable 
homes. But Washington Terrace is not so fortunate; 
its houses, though they plainly indicate liberal expendi- 
ture of money, are often of that "catch-as-catch-can" 
kind of architecture which one meets with but too fre- 
quently in the middle west. If St. Louis is western in 
one thing more than another it is the architecture of 
her houses. Not that they lack solidity but that on the 
average they are not to be compared, architecturally, 
with houses of corresponding modernness in such cities 
as Chicago or Detroit. The more I see of other cities 

223 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the more, indeed, I appreciate the new domestic archi- 
tecture of Detroit. And I cannot help feehng that it is 
curious that St. Louis should be behind Detroit in this 
particular when she is, as a city, so far superior in her 
evident understanding and love of art. 

Nevertheless, St. Louis has one architect whom she 
cannot honor too highly — Mr. William B. Ittner, who, 
as a designer of schools, stands unsurpassed. 

If ever I have seen a building perfect for its purpose, 
that building is the Frank Louis Soldan High School, 
designed by this man. It is the last word in schools; a 
building for the city of St. Louis to be proud of, and 
for the whole country to rejoice in. It has everything a 
school can have, including that quality rarest of all in 
schools — sheer beauty. It is worth a whole chapter in 
itself, from its great auditorium, which is like a very 
simple opera house, seating two thousand persons, to 
its tiled lunch rooms with their "cafeteria'' service. 
An architect could build one school like that, it seems to 
me, and then lie down and die content, feeling that his 
work was done. But Mr. Ittner apparently is not satis- 
fied so easily as I should be, for he goes gaily on build- 
ing other schools. If there is n't one to be built in St. 
Louis at the moment (and the city has an extraordinary 
number of fine school buildings), he goes off to some 
other city and puts a school up there. And for every 
one he builds he ought to have a crown of gold. 

Mr. John Rush Powell, the principal of the high 
school, was so good as to take my companion and me 

224 



THE FINER SIDE 

over the building. We envied Mr. Powell the privilege 
of being housed in such a palace, and Mr. Powell, in his 
turn, tried to talk temperately about the wonders of 
his school, and was so polite as to let us do the rav- 
ing. 

Do you remember, when you went to school, the long 
closet, or dressing room, where you used to hang your 
coat and hat? The boys and girls of the Soldan School 
have steel lockers in a sunlit locker room. Do you re- 
member the old wooden floors? These boys and girls 
have wooden floors to walk on, but the wood is quarter- 
sawed oak, and it is laid in asphalt over concrete, which 
makes the finest kind of floor. Do you remember the 
ugly old school building? The front of this one looks 
like Hampden Court Palace, brought up to date. Do 
you remember the big class-room that served almost 
every purpose? This school has separate rooms for 
everything — a greenhouse for the botanists, great 
studios, with skylights, for those who study art, a music 
hall, and private offices, beside the classrooms, for in- 
structors. Oh, you ought to see this school yourself, 
and learn how schools have changed! You ought to 
see the domestic science kitchen with its twenty-four 
gas ranges and the model dining room, where the girls 
give dinner parties for their parents; the sewing room 
and fitting rooms, and the laundries, with sanitary equip- 
ment and electric irons — for every girl who takes the 
domestic-science course must know how to do fine 
laundry work, even to the washing of flannels. 

225 



ABROAD AT HOME 

You should see the manual-traming shops, and the 
business college, and the textile work, and the kilns for 
pottery, and the very creditable drawings and paintings 
of the art students (who clearly have a competent 
teacher — again an unusual thing in schools), and the 
simple beauty of the corridors, so free from decoration, 
and the library — like that of a club — and the lavatories, 
as perfect as those in fine hotels, and the pictures on the. 
classroom walls — good prints of good things, like 
Whistler's portrait of his mother, instead of the old 
hideosities of Washington and Longfellow and Oliver 
Wendell Holmes, which used to hang on classroom walls 
in our school days. Oh, it is good to merely breathe the 
air of such a school — and why should n't it be, since the 
air is washed, and screened, and warmed, and fanned 
out to the rooms and corridors? Just think of that one 
thing, and then try to remember how schools used to 
smell — that rather zoological odor of dirty little boys 
and dirty little slates. That was one thing which struck 
me very forcibly about this school : it did n't smell like 
one. Yet, until I went there, I should have wagered 
that if I were taken blindfold to a school, led inside, and 
allowed a single whiff of it, I should immediately detect 
the place for what it was. Ah, memories of other days ! 
Ah, sacred smells of childhood! Can it be that the 
school smell has gone forever from the earth — that it 
has vanished with our youth — that the rising generation 
may not know it? There is but little sadness in the 
thought. 

226 



THE FINER SIDE 

Having thus dilated upon the oldtime smell of 
schools, I find myself drifting, perhaps through an as- 
sociation of ideas, to another subject — that of furs ; raw 
furs. 

The firm of Funsten Brothers & Co. have made St. 
Louis the largest primary fur market in the world. 
They operate a fur exchange which, though a private 
business, is conducted somewhat after the manner of a 
produce exchange. That is to say, the sales are not 
open to all buyers, but to about thirty men who are, in 
effect, ''members," it being required that a member be a 
fur dealer with a place of business in St. Louis. These 
men are jobbers, and they sell hi turn to the manufac- 
turers. 

Funsten Brothers & Co. work direct with trappers, 
and are in correspondence, I am informed, with between 
700,000 and 800,000 persons, engaged in trapping and 
shipping furs, in all parts of the world. Their business 
has been considerably increased of late years by the in- 
stallation of a trappers' information bureau and supply 
department for the accommodation of those who send 
them furs, and also by the marketing of artificial animal 
baits. In this way, and further by making it a rule to 
send checks in payment for furs received from trappers, 
on the same day shipments arrive, this company has 
built up for itself an enormous good will at the original 
sources of supply. 

The furs come from every State in the Union, from 
every Province in Canada, and from Alaska, being 

227 



ABROAD AT HOME 

shipped in, during the trapping season, at the rate of 
about two thousand lots a day, these lots containing any- 
where from five to five hundred pelts each. 

The lots are sorted, arranged in batches according to 
quality, and auctioned off at sales, which are held three 
days a week. Even Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Flor- 
ida, and Texas supply furs, but the furs from the north 
are in general the most valuable. This is not true, how- 
ever, of muskrat, the best of which comes from the cen- 
tral and eastern States. 

The sales are conducted in the large hall of the ex- 
change, where the lots of furs are displayed in great 
piles. The skins are handled in the raw state, having 
been merely removed from the carcass and dried before 
shipment, with the result that the floor of the exchange 
is made slippery by animal fats, and that the olfactory 
organs encounter smells not to be matched in any zoo — 
or school — the blended fragrance of raccoon, mink, 
opossum, muskrat, ermine, ringtail, house cat, wolf, 
red fox, gray fox, cross fox, swift fox, silver fox, 
badger, otter, beaver, lynx, marten, bear, wolverine, 
fisher — a great orchestra of odors, in which the "air" 
is carried most competently, most unqualifiedly, by that 
master virtuoso of mephitic redolence, the skunk. 

I was told that about sixty-five per cent, of all North 
American furs pass through this exchange; also I re- 
ceived the rather surprising information that the great- 
est number of skins furnished by this continent comes 
from within a radius of five hundred miles of St. Louis. 

228 



THE FINER SIDE 

It was in this Fur Exchange that the first auction of 
government seal skins ever held by the United States 
on its own territory, occurred last year. Before that 
time it had been the custom of the government to send 
Alaskan sealskins to Europe, where they were cured 
and dyed. Such of these skins as were returned to the 
United States, after having undergone curing and dye- 
ing, came back under a duty of 20 per cent., or more re- 
cently, by an increase in the tariff — 30 per cent. And 
all but a very few of the skins did come back. It was by 
action of Secretary of Commerce Redfield that the seal 
sale was transferred from London to St. Louis, and a 
member of the firm of Funsten Brothers & Co. informed 
me that the ultimate result will be that seal coats now 
costing, say, $1,200, may be bought for about $400 three 
years hence, when the seals will no longer be protected 
according to the present law. 

Some interesting information with regard to sealing 
was published in the St. Louis ''Republic" at the time of 
the sale. Quoting Mr. Philip B. Fouke, president of the 
Funsten Co., the "Republic" says : 

"Under the present policy of the Government the 
United States will get the dyeing, curing, and manufac- 
turing establishments from London, Amsterdam, Nizhni 
Novgorod, and other great centers. The price of seal- 
skins will be reduced two-thirds to the wearer. Seals 
have been protected for the past two years, and will be 
protected for three years more, but during the period of 
protection it is necessary for the Government hunters 

229 



ABROAD AT HOME 

to kill some of the 'bachelor seals' — males, without 
mates, who fight with other male seals for the possession 
of the females, destroying the young, and causing much 
trouble. Also a certain amount of seal meat must go to 
the natives for food. 

"Each female produces but one pup a year, and each 
male demands from twenty to one hundred females. 
Fights between males for the possession of the females 
are fearful combats. 

"In addition to protecting the seals on the Pribilof 
Islands, the United States has entered into an agree- 
ment with Japan, Russia, and England, that there shall 
be no sealing in the open seas for fifteen years. This 
open sea, or pelagic sealing did great harm. Only the 
females leave the land, where they can be protected, and 
go down to the open sea. Consequently the poachers 
got many females, destroying the young seals as well as 
the mothers, cutting off the source of supply, and leav- 
ing a preponderance of 'bachelors,' or useless males," 

What a chance for the writer of sex stories! Why 
dally with the human race when seals are living such a 
lurid life? Here is a brand-new field: The heroine a 
soft-eyed female with a hide like velvet ; the hero a dash- 
ing, splashing male. Sweet communions on the rocks 
at sunset, and long swims side by side. But one night 
on the cliffs, beneath the moon comes the blond beast of 
a bachelor, a seal absolutely unscrupulous and of 
the lowest animal impulses. Then the climax — the Jack 
London stuff: the fight on the edge of the cliff; the cry, 

230 



THE FINER SIDE 

the body hurtling to the rocks below. And, of course, 
a happy ending — love on a cake of ice. 

Old John Jacob Astor, founder of the Astor fortune, 
was a partner in the American Fur Company of St. 
Louis of which Pierre Chouteau was president. A let- 
ter written to Chouteau by Astor just before his retire- 
ment from the fur business gives as the reason for his 
withdrawal the following: 

I very much fear beaver will not sell very well very 
soon unless very fine. It appears that they make hats 
of silk in place of beaver. 

Beaver was at that time the most valuable skin, and 
had been used until then for the making of tall hats ; but 
the French were beginning to make silk hats, and Astor 
believed that in that fact was presaged the downfall of 
the beaver trade. 



Club life in St. Louis is very highly developed. There 
are of course the usual clubs which one expects to find 
in every large city : The St. Louis Club, a solid old or- 
ganization ; the University Club, and a fine new Country 
Club, large and well designed. Also there is a Racquet 
Club, an agreeable and very live institution now holding 
the national championship in double racquets, which is 
vested in the team of Davis and Wear. The Davis of 
this pair is Dwight F. Davis, an exceedingly active and 
able young man who, aside from many other interests, 

231 



ABROAD AT HOME 

is a member of the City Plan Commission, commissioner 
in charge of the very excellent parks of St. Louis, and 
giver of the famous Davis Cup, emblematic of the 
world's team tennis championship. 

But the characteristic club note of St. Louis is struck 
by the very small, exclusive clubs. One is the Floris- 
sant Valley Country Club, with a pleasant, simple club- 
house and a very charming membership. But the most 
famous little club of the city, and one of the most famous 
in the United States, is the Log Cabin Club. I do not 
believe that in the entire country there is another like 
it. The club is on the outskirts of the city, and has its 
own golf course. Its house is an utterly unostentatious 
frame building with a dining room containing a single 
table at which all the members sit at meals together, like 
one large family. The membership limit is twenty-five, 
and the list has never been completely filled. There were 
twenty-one members, I was told, at the time we were 
there, and besides being, perhaps, the most prominent men 
in the city, these gentlemen are all intimates, so that the 
club has an air of delightful informality which is hardly 
equaled in any other club I know. The family spirit is 
further enhanced by the fact that no checks are signed, 
the expense of operation being divided equally among 
the members. Here originated the "Log Cabin game" 
of poker, which is now known nationally in the most ex- 
alted poker circles. I should like to explain this game 
to you, telling you all the hands, and how to bet on them, 
but after an evening of practical instruction, I came 

232 



THE FINER SIDE 

away quite baffled. Missouri is, you know, a poker 
State. Ordinary poker, as played in the east, is a game 
too simple, too childlike, for the highly specialized 
Missouri poker mind. I played poker twice in Mis- 
souri — that is, I tried to play — but I might as well have 
tried to juggle with the lightnings of the gods. No man 
has the least conception of that game until he goes out 
to Missouri. There it is not merely a casual pastime; 
it is a rite, a sacrament, a magnificent expression of a 
people. The Log Cabin game is a thing of "kilters," 
skip-straights, around-the-corner straights, and other 
complications. Three of a kind is very nearly worth- 
less. Throw it away after the draw if you like, pay a 
dollar and get a brand-new hand. 

But those are some simple little points to be picked up 
in an evening's play, and a knowledge of the simple little 
points of such a game is worse than worthless — it is ex- 
pensive. To really learn the Log Cabin game, you must 
give up your business, your dancing, and your home 
life, move out to St. Louis, cultivate Log Cabin mem- 
bers (who are the high priests of poker) and play with 
them until your family fortune has been painlessly ex- 
tracted. And however great the fortune, it is a small 
price to pay for such adept instruction. When it is 
gone you will still fall short of ordinary Missouri poker, 
and will be as a mere babe in the hands of a Log Cabin 
member, but you will be absolutely sure of winning, 
anyzvJicre outside the State. 

It seems logical that the city, which is beyond doubt 

233 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the poker center of the universe, should also have at- 
tained to eminence in drinks. It was in St. Louis that 
two great drinks came into being. In the old days of 
straight whisky, the term for three fingers of red 
liquor in a whisky glass was a "ball." But there came 
from Austria a man named Enno Sanders, who estab- 
lished a bottling works in St. Louis, and manufactured 
seltzer. St. Louis liked the seltzer and presently it be- 
came the practice to add a little of the bubbling water 
to the "ball." This necessitated a taller glass, so men 
began to call for a "high ball." 

The weary traveler may be glad to know that the 
highball has not been discontinued in St. Louis. 

Another drink which originated in St. Louis is the 
gin rickey. Colonel Rickey was born in Hannibal, Mo., 
of which town I shall write presently. Later he moved 
to St. Louis and invented the famous rickey, which im- 
mortalized his name — preserving it, as it were, in al- 
cohol. The drink was first served in a bar opposite the 
old Southern Hotel — a hotel which, by the way, I re- 
gretted to see standing empty and deserted at the time 
of my last visit, for, in its prime, it was a hotel among 
hotels. 

I have tried to lead gradually, effectively to a climax. 
From clubs, which are pleasant, I progressed to poker, 
which is pleasanter ; from poker I stepped ahead to high- 
balls and gin rickeys. And now I am prepared to reach 
my highest altitude. I intend to tell the very nicest thing 
about St. Louis. And the nicest thing about St. Louis 

234 



I 



THE FINER SIDE 

is the nicest thing that there can be about a place. 

It discounts primitive street cars, an iU-set railway 
station, and an unfinished bridge. It sinks the parks, 
the botanical gardens, the art museum into comparative 
oblivion. Small wonder that St. Louis seems to ignore 
her minor weaknesses when she excels in this one thing 
— as she must know she does. 

The nicest thing about St. Louis is St. Louis girls. 

In the first place, fashionable young women in St. 
Louis are quite as gratifying to the eye as women any- 
where. In the second place, they have unusual poise. 
This latter quality is very striking, and it springs, I 
fancy, from the town's conservatism and solidity. The 
young girls and young men of the St. Louis social group 
have grown up together, as have their parents and 
grandparents before them. They give one the feeling 
that they are somehow rooted to the place, as no New 
Yorker is rooted to New York. The social fabric of 
St. Louis changes little. The old families live in the 
houses they have always lived in, instead of moving 
from apartment to apartment every year or two. One 
does not feel the nervous tug of social and financial 
straining, of that eternal overreaching which one senses 
always in New York. 

One day at luncheon I found myself between two very 
lovely creatures — neither of them over twenty-two or 
twenty-three ; both of them endowed with the aplomb of 
older, more experienced, women — who endeared them- 
selves to me by talking critically about the works of 

235 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Meredith — and Joseph Conrad— and Leonard Merrick. 
Fancy that ! Fancy their being pretty girls yet having 
worth-while things to say — and about those three men ! 

And when the conversation drifted away from books 
to the topic which my companion and I call "life stuff," 
and when I found them adept also in that field, my ap- 
preciation of St. Louis became boundless. 

It just occurs to me that, in publishing the fact that 
St. Louis girls have brains I may have unintentionally 
done them an unkindness. 

Once I asked a young English bachelor to my house 
for a week-end. 

''I want you to come this week," I said, "because the 
prettiest girl I know will be there." 

"Delighted," he replied. 

"She 's a most unusual girl," I went on, "for, besides 
being a dream of loveliness, she 's clever." 

"Oh," he said, "if she 's clever, let me come some other 
time. I don't like 'em clever. I like 'em pretty and 
stupid." 



2zG 



CHAPTER XIX 
HANNIBAL AND MARK TWAIN 

IF black slaves are no longer bought and sold there, 
if the river trade has dwindled, if the railroad and 
the factory have come, bringing a larger popula- 
tion with them, if the town now has a hundred-thou- 
sand-dollar city hall, a country club, and "fifty-six pas- 
senger trains daily," it is, at all events, a pleasure to 
record the fact that Hannibal, Missouri, retains to-day 
that look of soft and shambling picturesqueness suitable 
to an old river town, and essential to the ''St. Peters- 
burg" of fiction — the perpetual dwelling place of those 
immortal boys, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. 

Should this characterization of the town fail to meet 
with the approval of the Hannibal Commercial Club, I 
regret it, for I honor the Commercial Club because of 
its action toward the preservation of a thing so uncom- 
mercial as the boyhood home of Mark Twain. But, 
after all, the club must remember that, in its creditable 
effort to build up a newer and finer Hannibal, a Hanni- 
bal of brick and granite, it is running counter to the 
sentimental interests of innumerable persons who, 
though most of them have never seen the old town and 
never will, yet think of it as given to them by Mark 
Twain, with a peculiar tenderness, as though it were a 
Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn among the cities — a ragged, 



ABROAD AT HOME 

happy boy of a town, which ought never, never to grow 
up. 

There is no more charming way of preserving the 
memory of an artist than through the preservation of 
the house in which he Hved, and that is especially true 
where the artist was a literary man and where the house 
has figured in his writings. What memorial to Thomas 
Bailey Aldrich, for example, could equal the one in 
Portsmouth, N. H., where is preserved the house in 
which the "Bad Boy" of the ''Diary" used to live, even 
to the furniture and the bedroom wall paper mentioned 
in the book? And what monuments to Washington 
Irving could touch quite the note that is touched by that 
old house in Tarrytown, N. Y., or that other old house in 
Irving Place, in the city of New York, where the Au- 
thors' League of America now has its headcjuarters? 

With the exception of Stratford-on-Avon, I do not 
know of a community so completely dominated by the 
memory of a great man of letters as is the city of Han- 
nibal by the memory of Mark Tw^ain. There is, indeed, 
a curious resemblance to be traced between the two 
towns. I don't mean a physical resemblance, for no 
places could be less alike than the garden town where 
Shakespeare lived and the pathetic wooden village of 
the early west in which nine years of Mark Twain's 
boyhood were spent. The resemblance is only in the 
majestic shadows cast over them by their great men. 

Thus, the hotel in Stratford is called The Shakespeare 
Hotel, while that in Hannibal is The Mark Twain. 
/ 238 



HANNIBAL AND MARK TWAIN 

Stratford has the house in which Shakespeare was born ; 
Hannibal the house in which Mark Twain Hved — the 
house of Tom Sawyer. Stratford has the cottage of 
Anne Hathaway; Hannibal that of Becky Thatcher. 
And Hannibal has, furthermore, one possession which 
lovers of the delightful Becky will hope may long be 
spared to it — it possesses, in the person of Mrs. Laura 
Hawkins Frazer, who is now matron of the Home for 
the Friendless, the original of Becky. 



It is said that a memorial tablet, intended .to mark 
the birthplace of Eugene Field in St. Louis, was placed, 
not only upon the wrong house, but upon a house in the 
wrong street. Mark Twain unveiled the tablet; one 
can fancy the spirits of these two Missouri literary men 
meeting somewhere and smiling together over that. 
But if the shade of Mark Twain should undertake to 
chaff that of the poet upon the fact that mortals had 
erred as to the location of his birthplace, the shade of 
Field would not be able to retort in kind, for — thanks 
partly to the fact that Mark Twain was known for a 
genius while he was yet alive, and partly to the inde- 
fatigable labors of his biographer, Albert Bigelow 
Paine — a vast fund of accurate information has been 
preserved, covering the life of the great Missourian, 
from the time of his birth in the little hamlet of Florida, 
Mo., to his death in Reading, Conn. No; if the shade 
of Field should wish to return the jest, it would prob- 

239 



ABROAD AT HOME 

ably call the humorist's attention to a certain memorial 
tablet in the Mark Twain house in Hannibal. But of 
that presently. 

I have said that the Commercial Club honored Mark 
Twain's memory. That is true. But the Commercial 
Club would not be a Commercial Club if it did not also 
wish the visitor to take into consideration certain other 
matters. In effect it says to him : ''Yes, indeed, Mark 
Twain spent the "most important part of his boyhood 
here. But we wish you to understand that Hannibal is 
a busy, growing town. We have the cheapest electric 
power in the Mississippi Valley. We offer free fac- 
tory sites. We — " 

"Yes," you say, "but where is the Mark Twain 
house?" 

"Oh — " says Hannibal, catching its breath. "Go 
right on up Main to Hill Street ; you '11 find it just around 
the corner. Any one will point it out to you. There 's 
a bronze tablet in the wall. But put this little pamphlet 
in your pocket. It tells all about our city. You can 
read it at your leisure." 

You take the pamphlet and move along up Main 
Street. And if there is a sympathetic native with you 
he will stop you at the corner of Main and Bird — they 
call it Wildcat Corner — and point out a little wooden 
shanty adjoining a near-by alley, where, it is said, Mark 
Twain's father, John Marshall Clemens, had his office 
when he was Justice of the Peace — the same office in 
which Samuel Clemens in his boyhood saw the corpse 

240 




We came upon the "Mark Twain House" . . . And to think that, 
wretched as this place was, the Clemens family were forced to leave it 
for a time because they were too poor to live there ! 



HANNIBAL AND MARK TWAIN 

lying on the floor, by moonlight, as recounted in "The 
Innocents Abroad." 

It was at Wildcat Corner, too, that the boys con- 
ducted that famous piece of high finance: trading off 
the green watermelon, which they had stolen, for a ripe 
one, on the allegation that the former had been pur- 
chased. 

Also near the corner stands the building in which 
Joseph Ament had the office of his newspaper, the 
"Missouri Courier," where young Sam Clemens first 
went to work as an apprentice, doing errands and learn- 
ing to set type ; and there are many other old buildings 
having some bearing on the history of the Clemens 
family, including one at the corner of Main and Hill 
Streets, in the upper story of which the family lived for 
a time, a building somewhat after the Greek pattern so 
prevalent throughout the south in the early days. Once, 
when he revisited Hannibal after he had become fa- 
mous, Mark Twain stopped before that building and 
told Mr. George A. Mahan that he remembered when 
it was erected, and that at the time the fluted pilasters 
on the front of it constituted his idea of reckless ex- 
travagance — that, indeed, the ostentation of them 
startled the whole town. 

Turning into Bird Street and passing the old Pavey 
Hotel, we came upon the "Mark Twain House," a tiny 
box of a cottage, its sagging front so taken up with five 
windows and a door that there is barely room for the 
little bronze plaque which marks the place. At one side 

241 



ABROAD AT HOME 

is an alley running back to the house of Huckleberry 
Finn, on the next street (Huck, as Paine tells us, was 
really a boy named Tom Blankenship), and in that alley 
stood the historic fence which young Sam Clemens 
cajoled the other boys into whitewashing for him, as 
related in "Tom Sawyer." 

Inside the house there is little to be seen. It is oc- 
cupied now by a custodian who sells souvenir post cards, 
and has but few Mark Twain relics to show — some 
photographs and autographs; nothing of importance. 
But, despite that, I got a real sensation as I stood in 
the little parlor, hardly larger than a good-sized closet, 
and realized that in that miserable shanty grew up the 
wild, barefoot boy who has since been called "the great- 
est Missourian" and "America's greatest literary man," 
and that in and about that place he gathered the im- 
pressions and had the adventures which, at the time, he 
himself never dreamed would be made by him into 
books — much less books that would be known as classics. 

In the front room of the cottage a memorial tablet is 
to be seen. It is a curious thing. At the top is the 
following inscription : 

THIS BUILDING PRESENTED TO THE 

CITY OF HANNIBAL_, 

MAY 7, I9I2, 

BY 

MR. AND MRS. GEORGE A. MAHAN 

AS A MEMORIAL TO 

MARK TWAIN 

242 



i 



I 



HANNIBAL AND MARK TWAIN 

Beneath the legend is a portrait bust of the author In 
bas relief. At the bottom of the tablet is another in- 
scription. From across the room I saw that it was 
set oft" in quotation marks, and assuming, of course, that 
it was some particularly suitable extract from the works 
of the most quotable of all Americans, I stepped across 
and read it. This is what it said: 

"mark TWAIN's LIFE TEACHES THAT 
. POVERTY IS AN INCENTIVE RATHER 
THAN A bar: and THAT ANY BOY, 
HOWEVER HUMBLE HIS BIRTH AND 
SURROUNDINGS, MAY BY HONESTY 
AND INDUSTRY ACCOMPLISH GREAT 
THINGS." 

— George A. Mahan. 

That inscription made me think of many things. It 
made me think of Napoleon's inscription on the statue 
of Henri IV, and of Judge Thatcher's talk with Tom 
Sawyer, in the Sunday school, and of Mr. Walters, the 
Sunday school superintendent, in the same book, and of 
certain moral lessons drawn by Andrew Carnegie. 
And not the least thing of which it made me think was 
the mischievous, shiftless, troublesome, sandy-haired 
young rascal who hated school and Sunday school and 
yet became the more than honest, more than industrious 
man, commemorated there. 

If I did not feel the inspiration of that place while 
considering the tablet, the back yard gave me real de- 

243 



ABROAD AT HOME 

light. There were the old outhouses, the old hack stair, 
the old back fence, and the little window looking down 
on them — the window of Tom Sawyer, beneath which, 
in the gloaming, Huckleberry Finn made catcalls to 
summon forth his fellow bucaneer. And here, be- 
low the window, was the place where Pamela Clemens, 
Sam's sister, the original of Cousin Mary in *'Tom 
Sawyer," had her candy pull on that evening when a 
boy, in his undershirt, came tumbling from above. 

And to think that, wretched as this place was, the 
Clemens family were forced to leave it for a time be- 
cause they were too poor to live there! Of a certainty 
Mark Twain's early life was as squalid as his later life 
was rich. However, it was always colorful — he saw 
to that, straight through from the barefoot days to 
those of the white suits, the Oxford gown, and the 
European courts. 

Not far back of the house rises the "Cardiff Hill" of 
the stories; in reality, Holliday's Hill, so called because 
long ago there lived, up at the top, old Mrs. Holliday, 
who burned a lamp in her window every night as a mark 
for river pilots to run by. It was down that hill that 
the boys rolled the stones which startled churchgoers, 
and that final, enormous rock which, by a fortunate freak 
of chance, hurdled a negro and his wagon instead of 
striking and destroying them. Ah, how rich in racy 
memories are those streets! Somewhere among them, 
in that part of town which has come to be called "Mark- 
Twainville," is the very spot, unmarked and unknown, 

244 




^****'«pw%'. »;;.-*■ 






\, 



At one side is an alley running back to the house of Huckleberry Finn, and 
in that alley stood the historic fence which young Sam Clemens cajoled the 
other boys into whitewashing for him 






HANNIBAL AND MARK TWAIN 

where young Sam Clemens picked up a scrap of news- 
paper upon which was printed a portion of the tale of 
Joan of Arc — a scrap of paper which, Paine says, gave 
him his first literary stimulus. And somewhere else, 
not far from the house, is the place where Orion Clem- 
ens, Sam's elder brother, ran the ill-starred newspaper 
on which Sam worked, setting type and doing his first 
writing. It was, indeed, in Orion's paper that Sam's fa- 
mous verse, "To Mary in Hannibal," was published — 
the title condensed, because of the narrow column, to 
read: "To Mary in H— 1." 

Along the crest of the bluffs, overlooking the river, 
the city of Hannibal has made for itself a charming 
park, and at the highest point in this park there is to be 
unveiled, in a short time, a statue of Samuel Langhorne 
Clemens, which, from its position, will command a view 
of many leagues of mile-wide Mississippi. It is pecul- 
iarly fitting that the memorial should be stationed in 
that place. Mark Twain loved the river. Even though 
it almost "got" him in his boyhood (he had "nine nar- 
row escapes from drowning") he adored it; later, when 
his youthful ambition to become a river pilot was at- 
tained, he still adored it; and finally he wrote his love 
of it into that masterpiece, "Life on the Mississippi," 
of which Arnold Bennett has said: "I would sacrifice 
for it the entire works of Thackeray and George Eliot." 

Looking up the river from the spot where the statue 
will be placed, one may see Turtle Island, where Tom 
and Huck used to go and feast on turtle's eggs — rowing 

245 



ABROAD AT HOME 

there in that boat which, after they had so ''honestly and 
industriously" stolen it, they painted red, that its former 
proprietor might not recognize it. Below is Glascox 
Island, where Nigger Jim hid. Glascox Island is often 
called Tom Sawyer's Island, or Mark Twain's Island, 
now. Not far below the island is the "scar on the hill- 
side" which marks the famous cave. 

''For Sam Clemens," says Paine in his biography, 
"the cave had a fascination that never faded. Other 
localities and diversions might pall, but any mention of 
the cave found him always eager and ready for the 
three-mile walk or pull that brought them to the mystic 
door." 

I suggested to my companion that, for the sake of 
sentiment, we, too, approach the cave by rowing down 
the river. And, having suggested the plan, I offered 
to take upon myself the heaviest responsibility con- 
nected with it — that of piloting the boat in these un- 
familiar waters. All I required of him was the mere 
manual act of working the oars. To my amazement he 
refused. I fear that he not only lacks sentiment, but 
that he is becoming lazy. 

We drove out to the cave in a Ford car. 

Do you remember when Tom Sawyer took the boys 
to the cave at night, in "Huckleberry Finn" ? 

"We went to a clump of bushes," says Huck, "and 
Tom made everybody swear to keep the secret, and then 
showed them a hole in the hill, right in the thickest part 
of the bushes. Then we lit candles and crawled in on 

246 



HANNIBAL AND MARK TWAIN 

our hands and knees. We went about two hundred 
yards, and then the cave opened up. Tom poked about 
among the passages, and pretty soon ducked under a 
wall where you would n't 'a' noticed there was a hole. 
We went along a narrow place and got into a kind of 
room, all damp and sweaty and cold, and there we 
stopped. Tom says : 'Now we '11 start this band of 
robbers and call it Tom Sawyer's Gang. Everybody 
that wants to join has got to take an oath and write his 
name in blood.' " 

That is the sort of cave it is — a wonderful, mysteri- 
ous place, black as India ink; a maze of passage-ways 
and vaulted rooms, eaten by the waters of long ago 
through the limestone cliffs ; a seemingly endless cavern 
full of stalactites and stalagmites, looking like great 
conical masses of candle grease; a damp, oppressive 
labyrinth of eerie rock formations, to kindle the most 
bloodcurdling imaginings. 

As we moved in, away from the daylight, illuminating 
our way, feebly, with such matches as we happened to 
have with us, and with newspaper torches, the man who 
had driven us out there told us about the cave. 

''They ain't no one ever explored it," he said. '"S 
too big. Why, they 's a lake in here — quite a big lake, 
with fish in it. And they 's an arm of the cave that 
goes away down underneath the river. They say they 's 
wells, too — holes with no bottoms to 'em. Prob'ly 
that 's where them people went to that 's got lost in the 
cave." 

247 



ABROAD AT HOME 

''Have people gotten lost in here?" I asked. 

"Oh, yes," he said cheerfully. "They say there 's 
some that 's gone in and never come out again. She 's 
quite a cave." 

I began to walk more gingerly into the blackness. 

"I suppose," I said to him presently, "there are toads 
and snakes and such things here?" 

He hastened to set my mind at rest on that. 

"Oh, Lord bless you, yes!" he declared. "Bats, 
too." 

"And I suppose some of those holes you speak of are 
full of snakes?" 

"Most likely." His voice reverberated in the dark- 
ness. "But I can't be sure. Nobody that 's ever been 
in them holes ain't lived to tell the tale." 

By this time we had reached a point at which no 
glimmer of light from the mouth of the cave was visible. 
We were feeling our way along, running our hands 
over the damp rocks and putting our feet before us with 
the utmost caution. I knew, of course, that it would 
add a good deal to my story if one of our party fell into 
a hole and was never again heard from, but the more I 
thought about it the more advisable it seemed to me that 
I should not be that one. I had an engagement for din- 
ner that evening, and besides, if I fell in, who would 
write the story? Certainly the driver of the auto-hack, 
for all his good will, could hardly do it justice ; whereas, 
if he fell in I could at a pinch drive the little Ford back 
to the city. 

248 



HANNIBAL AND MARK TWAIN 

I dropped behind. But when I did that he stopped. 

"I just stopped for breath," I said. ''You can keep 
on and I '11 follow in a minute." 

"No," he answered, "I '11 wait for you. I 'm out of 
breath, too. Besides, I don't want you to get lost in 
here." 

At this juncture my companion, who had moved a 
little way oif, gave a frightful yell, which echoed hor- 
ribly through the cavern. 

I could not see him. I did not know what was the 
matter. Never mind! My one thought was of him. 
Perhaps he had been attacked by a wildcat or a serpent. 
Well, he was my fellow traveler, and I would stand by 
him! Even the chauffeur of the hack seemed to feel 
the same way. Together we turned and ran toward 
the place whence we thought the voice might have come 
— that is to say, toward the mouth of the cave. But 
when we reached it he was n't there. 

"He must be back in the cave, after all," I said to the 
driver. 

"Yes," he agreed. 

"Now, I tell you," I said. "We must n't both go in 
after him. One of us" ought to stay here and call to the 
others to guide them out. I '11 do that. I have a good 
strong voice. And you go in and find out what 's the 
matter. You know the cave better than I do." 

"Oh, no I don't," said the man. 

"Why certainly you do!" I said. 

"I was n't never into the cave before," he said. 

249 



ABROAD AT HOME 

''Leastways not nowhere near as far as we was this 
time." 

''But you Hve right here in Hannibal," I insisted. 
"You must know more about it than I do. I hve in 
New York. What could I know about a cave away 
out here in Missouri?" 

"Well, you know just as much as I do, anyhow," he 
returned doggedly. 

"Look herel" I said sharply. "I hope you aren't a 
coward? The idea! A great big fellow like you, too !" 

However, at that juncture, our argument was stopped 
by the appearance of the missing man. He strolkd into 
the light in leisurely fashion. 

"What happened?" I cried. 

"Happened?" he repeated. "Nothing happened. 
Wliy?" 

"You yelled, didn't you?" 

"Yes," he said, "I wanted to hear the echoes." 



Before leaving Hannibal that afternoon, we had the 
pleasure of meeting an old school friend of Samuel 
Clemens's, Colonel John L. RoBards — the same John 
RoBards of whom it is recorded in Paine's work that 
"he wore almost continually the medal for amiability, 
while Samuel Clemens had a mortgage on the medal for 
spelling." 

Colonel RoBards is still amiable. He took us to his 
office, showed us a scrap-book containing clippings in 

250 



HANNIBAL AND MARK TWAIN 

which he was mentioned in connection with Mark 
Twain, and told us of old days in the log schoolhouse. 

Seeing that I was making notes, the Colonel called 
my attention politely to the spelling of his name, request- 
ing that I get it right. Then he explained to me the rea- 
son for the capital B, beginning the second syllable. 

'T may say, sir," he explained in his fine Southern 
manner, "that I inserted that capital B myself. At 
least I converted the small B into a capital. I am a 
Kentuckian, sir, and in Kentucky my family name 
stands for something. It is a name that I am proud to 
bear, and I do not like to be called out of it. But up 
here I was continually annoyed by the errors of careless 
persons. Frequently they would fail to give the accent 
on the final syllable, where it should be placed, sir — 
RoBards; that is the way it should be pronounced — but 
even worse, it happened now and then that some one 
called me by the plebeian appellation, Roberts. That 
was most distasteful to me, sir. Most distasteful. 
For that reason I use the capital B for emphasis." 

I was glad to assure the Colonel that in these pages 
his name would be correctly spelled, and I call him to 
witness that I spoke the truth. I repeat, the name is 
RoBards. And it is borne by a most amiable gentle^ 
man. 

Mr. F. W. Hixson of St. Louis has in his possession 
an autograph book which belonged to his mother when 
she was a young girl (Ann Virginia Rufifner), residing 

251 



ABROAD AT HOME 

in Hannibal. In this book, Sam Clemens wrote a verse 
at the time when he was preparing to leave the town 
where he had spent his youth. I reproduce that boyish 
bit of doggerel here, solely for the value of one word 
which it contains: 

Good-by, good-by, 

I bid you now, my friend ; 

And though 'tis hard to 

say the word, 
To destiny I bend. 

Never, in his most perfect passages, did Samuel 
Clemens hit more certainly upon the one right word 
than when in this verse he wrote the second word in the 
last line. 

And what a destiny it was! 



252 



i 




\ 



s 









3 
O 

U 



^ 



m 



I 



CHAPTER XX 

PIKE AND POKER 

T was before we left St. Louis that I received a let- 
ter inviting us to visit in the town of Louisiana, 
Mo. I quote a portion of it: 



Louisiana is in Pike County, a county famous for its big red 
apples, miles of rock roads, fine old estates, Rhine scenery, 
capons, .rare old country hams, and poker. Pike County means 
more to Missouri than Missouri does to Pike. 

Do you remember "Jim Bludso of the 'Prairie Belle'"? 

He zvere n't no saint — them engineers 

Is pretty much all alike — 
One zvife in Natch ez-under-the-Hill 

And another one here in Pike. 

We can show you "the wilier-bank on the right," where 
Bludso ran the 'Prairie Belle' aground and made good with his 
life his old promise : 

/ 'II hold her nozzle agin the bank 
Till the last galoot 's ashore. 

We can also show you the home of Champ Clark, and the 
largest nursery in the world, and a meadow where, twenty-five 
years ago, a young fellow threw down his hayfork and said to 
his companion: "Sam, I'm going to town to study law with 
Champ Clark. Some day I 'm going to be Governor of this 
State." He was Elliott W. Major, and he is Governor to-day. 

The promise held forth by this letter appealed to 
me. It is always interesting- to see whether a man like 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Champ Clark lives in a house with ornamental iron 
fences on the roof and iron urns in the front yard ; like- 
wise there is a sort of fascination for a man of my ex- 
tensive ignorance, in hearing not merely how the Gov- 
ernor of Missouri decided to become Governor, but in 
finding out his name. Then those hams and capons — 
how many politicians can compare for interest with a 
tender capon or a fine old country ham? And perhaps 
more alluring to me than any of these was the idea of 
going to visit in a strange State, and a strange town, 
and a strange house — the house of a total stranger. 

We accepted. 

Our host met us with his touring car and proceeded 
to make good his promises about the nursery, and the 
scenery, and the roads, and the estates, and as we bowled 
along he told us about *'Pike." It is indeed a great 
county. And the fact that it was originally settled by 
Virginians, Kentuckians, and Carolinians still stamps 
it strongly with the qualities of the South. Though 
north of St. Louis on the map, it is south of St. Louis 
in its spirit. Indeed, Louisiana is the most Southern 
town in appearance and feeling that we visited upon our 
travels. The broad black felt hats one sees about the 
streets, the luxuriant mustaches and goatees — all these 
things mark the town, and if they are not enough, you 
should see 'Tndy" Gordon as she walks along puffing 
at a bulldog pipe black as her own face. 

Never outside of Brittany and Normandy have I seen 
roads so full of animals as those of Pike County. From 

254 



PIKE AND POKER 

the great four-horse teams, drawing produce to and 
from the beautiful estate called "Falicon," to the mule 
teams and the saddle horses and the cows and pigs and 
chickens and dogs, all the quadrupeds and bipeds domes- 
ticated by mankind were there upon the roads to meet 
us and to protest, by various antics, against the invasion 
of the motor car. Dogs hurled themselves at the car as 
though to suicide; chickens extended themselves in 
shrieking dives across our course; pigs arose from the 
luxurious mud with grunts of frantic disapproval, and 
cantered heavily into the fields ; cows trotted lumberingly 
before us, their hind legs and their fore legs moving, it 
seemed, without relation to each other ; a goat ran round 
and round the tree to which he was attached; mules 
pointed their ears to heaven, and opened their eyes w^ide 
in horror and amazement ; beautiful saddle horses bear- 
ing countrymen, or rosy-cheeked young women from 
the farms, tried to climb into the boughs of wayside 
trees for safety, and four-horse teams managed to get 
themselves involved in a manner only rivaled by a ball 
of yarn with which a kitten is allowed to work its own 
sweet will. 

Our host took all these matters calmly. When a mule 
protested at our presence on the road, it would merely 
serve as a reminder that, "Pike County furnished most 
of the mules for the Spanish war"; or, when a saddle 
horse showed signs of homicidal purpose, it would draw 
the calm observation, 'Tike is probably the greatest 
county in the whole United States for saddle horses. 

255 



ABROAD AT HOME 

'Missouri King,' the undefeated champion saddle horse 
of the world, was raised here." 

So we progressed amid the outraged animals. 

My feeling as I alighted at last on the step before our 
host's front door was one of definite relief. For dinner 
is the meal I care for most, and man, with all his faults, 
the animal I most enjoy. 

The house was genial like its owner — it was just the 
sort of house I like; large and open, with wide halls, 
spacious rooms, comfortable beds and chairs, and ash 
trays everywhere. 

'T 've asked some men in for dinner and a little game," 
our host informed us, as he left us to our dressing. 

Presently we heard motors arriving in the drive, be- 
neath our windows. When we descended, the living 
room was filled with men in dinner suits. (Oh, yes; 
they wear them in those Mississippi River towns, and 
they fit as well as yours does ! ) 

Wlien we had been introduced we all moved to the 
dining room. 

At each place was a printed menu with the heading 
''At Home Abroad" — a hospitable inversion of the gen- 
eral title of these chapters — and with details as follows : 

A COUNTRY DINNER 

Old Pike County ham, 
Pike County capons 
and other Pike County essentials, 
with Pike County Colonels, 

256 



PIKE AND POKER 
At the bottom of the card was this — shall I call it 



Senator Warner once said to Colonel Roosevelt : "Pike 
County babies cut their teeth on poker chips." 

I have already said that Pike is a county with a South- 
ern savor, but I had not realized how fully that was true 
until I dined there. I will not say that I have never 
tasted such a dinner, for truth I hold even above polite- 
ness. All I will say is that if ever before I had met with 
such a meal the memory of it has departed — and, I may 
add, my memory for famous meals is considered good 
to the point of irritation. 

The dinner (save for the "essentials") was entirely 
made up of products of the county. More, it was even 
supervised and cooked by county products, for two par- 
ticularly sweet young ladies, members of the family, 
were flying around the kitchen in their pretty evening 
gowns, helping and directing Molly. 

Molly is a pretty mulatto girl. Her skin is like a 
smooth, light-colored bronze, her eye is dark and gentle, 
like that of some domesticated animal, her voice drawls 
in melodious cadences, and she has a sort of shyness 
which is very fetching. 

''Ah cain't cook lak they used to cook in the ole days," 
she smiled in response to my tribute to the dinner, later. 
"The Kuhnel was askin' jus' th' othah day if ah could 
make 'im some ash cake, but ah haid to tell 'im 
ah could n't. Ah 've seen ma gran'fatha make it 



2 



57 



ABROAD AT HOME 

lots o' times, but folks cain't make it no mo', now-a- 
days." 

Poor benighted Northerner that I am, I had to ask 
what ash cake was. It is a kind of corn cake, Molly 
told me, the parent, so to speak, of the corn dodger, and 
the grandparent of hoecake. It has to be prepared care- 
fully and then cooked in the hot ashes — cooked "jes so," 
as Molly said. 

Having learned about ash cake, I demanded more 
Pike County culinary lore, whereupon I was told, partly 
by my host, and partly by Molly, about the oldtime wed- 
ding cooks. 

Wedding cooks were the best cooks in the South, 
supercooks, with state-wide reputations. When there 
was a wedding a dinner was given at the home of the 
bride, for all the wedding guests, and it was in the 
preparation of this repast that the wedding cook of the 
bride's family showed what she could do. That dinner 
was on the day of the wedding. On the next day the 
entire company repaired to the home of the groom's 
family, where another dinner was served — a dinner in 
which the wedding cook belonging to this family tried 
to outdo that of the day before. This latter feast was 
known as the "infair." But all these old Southern cus- 
toms seem to have departed now, along with the wed- 
ding cooks themselves. The latter very seldom came 
to sale, being regarded as the most valuable of all slaves. 
Once in a while when some leading family was in 
financial difficulties and was forced to sell its wedding 

258 



PIKE AND POKER 

cook she would bring as much as eight or ten times the 
price of an ordinary female slave. 

After dinner, when we moved out to the living room, 
we found a large, green table all in place, with the chips 
arranged in little piles. But let me introduce you to 
the players. 

First, there was Colonel Edgar Stark, our host, genial 
and warm-hearted over dinner ; cold and inscrutable be- 
hind his spectacles when poker chips appeared. 

Then Colonel Charlie Buffum, heavily built, but with 
a similar dual personality. 

Then Colonel Frank Buffum, State Highway Com- 
missioner; or, as some one called him later in the even- 
ing, when the chips began to gather at his place. State 
''highwayman." 

Then Colonel Dick Goodman, banker, raconteur, and 
connoisseur of edibles and "essentials." 

Then Colonel George S. Cake, who, when not a 
Colonel, is a Commodore: commander of the "Betsy," 
flagship of the Louisiana Yacht Club, and the most fa- 
mous craft to ply the Mississippi since the "Prairie 
Belle." (Don't "call" Colonel Cake when he raises you 
and at the same time raises his right eyebrow.) 

Then Colonel Dick Hawkins, former Collector of the 
Port of St. Louis, and more recently (since there has 
been so little in St. Louis to collect) a gentleman far- 
mer. (Colonel Hawkins always wins at poker. The 
question is not "Will he win?" but "How much?") 

259 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Only two men in the game were not, so far as I dis- 
covered, Colonels. 

One, Major Dave Wald, has been held back in title 
because of time devoted to the pursuit of literature. 
Major Wald has written a book. The subject of the 
book is Poker. As a tactician, he is perhaps unrivaled 
in Missouri. He will look at a hand and instantly de- 
clare the percentage of chance it stands of filling in the 
draw, according to the law of chance. One hand will 
be, to Major Wald, a "sixteen-time hand"; another a 
"thirty-two time hand," and so on — meaning that the 
player has one chance in sixteen, or in thirty-two, of 
filling. 

The other player was merely a plain "Mister," like 
ourselves — Mr. John W. Matson, the corporation 
lawyer. At first I felt sorry for Mr. Matson. It 
seemed hard that the rank of Colonel had been denied 
him. But when I saw him shuffle and deal, I was no 
longer sorry for him, but for myself. With the pos- 
sible exception of General Bob Williams (who won't 
play any more now that he has been appointed post- 
master), and Colonel Clarence Buell, who used to play 
in the big games on the Mississippi boats, Mr. Matson 
can shuffle and deal more rapidly and more accurately 
than any man in Missouri. 

Colonel Buell was present, as was Colonel Lloyd 
Stark, but neither played. Colonel Buell had intended 
to, but on being told that my companion and I were from 
New York he declined to "take the money." The 

260 



I 



PIKE AND POKER 

Colonel — but to say "the Colonel" in Pike County is 
hardly specific — Colonel Buell, I mean, is the same gen- 
tleman who fought the Indians, long ago, with Buffalo 
Bill, and who later acted as treasurer of the Wild West 
Show on its first trip to Europe. Some one informed 
me that the Colonel — Colonel Buell, I mean — was a 
capitalist, but the information was beside the mark, for 
I had already seen the diamond ring he wears — a most 
remarkable piece of landscape gardening. 

During the evening Colonel Buell, who stood for an 
hour or two and watched the play, spoke of certain 
things that he had seen and done which, as I estimated 
it, could not have been seen or done within the last 
sixty years. "How old is Colonel Buell?" I asked an- 
other Colonel. 

"Colonel," asked the Colonel, "how old are you?" 

"Colonel," replied the Colonel, "I am exactly in my 
prime." 

"I know that, Colonel," said the Colonel, "but what 
is your age?" 

"Colonel," returned the Colonel suavely, "I have for- 
gotten my exact age. But I know that I am somewhere 
between eighty and one hundred and forty-two." 

It was Mr. Matson's deal. He dealt. The cards 
passed through the air and fell, one on the other, in 
neat piles. (If you prefer it, Mr. Matson can drop a 
fan-shaped hand before you, all ready to pick up. ) And 
from the time that the first hand was played I knew that 
here, as in St. Louis, my companion and I were babes 

261 



ABROAD AT HOME 

among the lions. I do not know how he played, but I 
do know that I played along as best I could, only trying 
not to lose too much money at once. 

But why rehearse the pathetic story? I spoke in a 
former chapter of Missouri poker, and Pike County is a 
county in Missouri. Bet on a good pat hand and some 
one always holds a better one. Bluff and they call you. 
Call and they beat you. There is no way of winning 
from Missouri. Missouri poker players are mahatmas. 
They have an occult sense of cards. Babes at their 
mothers' breasts can tell the difference between a 
straight and a flush long before they have the power of 
speech. Once, while in Pike County, I asked a little 
boy how many brothers and sisters he had. "One 
brother and three sisters," he replied, and added: "A 
full house." 

The Missouri gentlemen, so gay, so genial, at the din- 
ner table, take on a frigid look when the cards and chips 
appear. They turn from gentle, kindly human beings 
into relentless, ravening wolves, each intent upon the 
thought of devouring the other. And when, over a 
poker game, some player seems to enter into a pleasant 
conversation, the other players know that even that is a 
bluff — a blind to cover up some diabolic plot. 

Once during the game, for instance. Colonel Hawkins 
started in to tell me something of his history. And I, 
bland simpleton, believed we were conversing sans ul- 
terior motive. 

"I used to be in politics," he said. "Then I was in 

262 



PIKE AND POKER 

the banking business. But I 've gone back to farming 
now, because it is the only honest business in the world. 
In fact—" 

But at that juncture the steely voices of half the other 
players at the table interrupted. 

"Ante!" they cried. "Ante, farmer!" 

Whereupon Colonel Hawkins, who by that time had 
to crane his neck to see the table over his pile of chips — 
a pile of chips like the battlements of some feudal lord — 
anted suavely. 

By midnight Colonel Buell, who had stood behind me 
for a time and watched my play, showed signs of fatigue 
and anguish. And a little later, after having seen me 
try to "put it over" with three sixes, he sighed heavily 
and went home — a fine, slender, courtly figure, straight 
as a gun barrel, walking sadly out into the night. Next 
Major Wald ceased to play for himself, but began to 
take an interest in my hand. Under his supervision 
during the last fifteen minutes of the game I made a 
tiny dent in Colonel Hawkins's stacks of chips. But it 
is only just to Colonel Hawkins to say that, by that time, 
the Missourians were so sorry for us that they were 
making the most desperate efforts not to win from us 
any more than they could help. 

When the game broke up. Major Wald and Colonel 
Hawkins showed concern about our future. 

"How far are you young men going, did you say?" 
asked Colonel Hawkins. 

"To the Pacific Coast," I answered. 

263 



ABROAD AT HOME 

At that the two veteran poker players looked at each 
other solemnly, m silence, and shook their heads. 

"All the way to the coast, eh?" demanded Major 
Wald. Then: "Do you expect to play cards much as 
you go along?" 

I wished to uphold the honor of New York as best I 
could, so I tried to reply gamely. 

"Oh, yes," I said. "Whenever anybody wants a 
game they '11 find us ready." 

Again I saw them exchange glances. 

"You tell him, Major," said Colonel Hawkins, walk- 
ing away. 

"Young man," said Major Wald, placing his hand 
kindly on my shoulder, "I played poker before you were 
born. I know a good deal about it. You would n't take 
ofifense if I gave you a pointer about your game?" 

"On the contrary," I said, thinking I was about to 
hear the inner secrets of Missouri poker, "I shall be 
most grateful." 

"H I advise you," he pursued, "will you agree to fol- 
low my advice?" 

"Certainly." 

"Well," said the Major, "don't you play poker any 
more while you 're in the West. Wait till you get back 
to New York." 



Seeing the houses of the players next day as I drove 
about the county, I suspected that even these had been 

264 



PIKE AND POKER 

built around the game of poker, for each house has 
ample accommodations for the "gang" in case the game 
lasts until too late to go home. In the winter the games 
occur at the houses of the dififerent Colonels, and there 
is always a dinner first. But it is in summer that the 
greatest games occur, for then it is the immemorial cus- 
tom for the Colonels (and Major Wald and Mr. Matson,- 
too, of course) to charter a steamer and go out on the 
river. These excursions sometimes last for the better 
part of a week. Sometimes they cruise. Sometimes 
they go ashore upon an island and camp. "We take a 
tribe of cooks and a few cases of 'essentials,' " one of 
the Colonels explained to me, "and the game never stops 
at all." 

My companion and I were tired. The mental strain 
had told upon us. Soon after the Colonels, the Major, 
and Mr. Matson went, we retired. It seemed to me 
that I had hardly closed my eyes when I heard a faint 
rap at my bedroom door. But I must have slept, for 
there was sunlight streaming through the window. 

"What is it?" I called. 

The voice of our host replied. 

"Breakfast will be ready any time you want it," he 
declared. "Will you have your toddy now?" 

Ah! Pike is a great county! 

And what do you suppose we had for breakfast? 
At the center of the table was a pile of the most beau- 
tiful and enormous red apples — fragrant apples, giving 
a sweet, appetizing scent which filled the room. I had 

265 



ABROAD AT HOME 

thought before that I knew something about apples, but 
when I tasted these I became aware that no merely good 
apple, no merely fine apple, would ever satisfy my taste 
again. These apples, which are known as the "Deli- 
cious," are to all other apples that I know as Missouri 
poker is to all other poker. They are in a class abso- 
lutely alone, and, in case you get some on a lucky day, 
I want to tell you how to eat them with your breakfast. 
Don't eat them as you eat an ordinary apple, but either 
fry them, with a slice of bacon, or cut them up and take 
them as you do peaches — that is, with cream and sugar. 
Did you ever see an apple with flesh white and firm, yet 
tender as a pear at the exact point of perfect ripeness? 
Did you ever taste an apple that seemed actually to melt 
upon your tongue? That is the sort of apple we had 
for breakfast. 



266 



CHAPTER XXI 
OLD RIVER DAYS 

LATER we motored to the town of Clarksville, 
some miles down the river — a town which hud- 
dles along the bank, as St. Louis must have in 
her early days. Being a small, straggling village which 
has not, if one may judge from appearances, progressed 
or even changed in fifty years, Clarksville out-Hannibals 
Hannibal. Or, perhaps, it is to-day the kind of town 
that Hannibal was when Mark Twain was a boy. In 
its decay it is theatrically perfect. 

Our motor stopped before the bank, and we were in- 
troduced to the editor of the local paper, which is called 
'The Piker." 

The bank is, in appearance, contemporary with the 
town. The fittings are of the period of the Civil War — 
walnut, as I recall them. And there are red glass signs 
over the little window grilles bearing the legends 
"Cashier" and "President." 

In the back room we met the president, Mr. John O. 
Roberts, a gentleman over eighty years of age, who can 
sit back, with his feet upon his desk, smoke cigars, and, 
from a cloud of smoke, exude the most delightful stories 
of old days on the Mississippi. For Mr. Roberts was 

267 



ABROAD AT HOME 

clerk on river boats more than sixty years ago, in the 
golden days of the great stream. There, too, we had 
the good fortune to meet Professor M. S. Goodman, 
who was born in Missouri in 1837, and founded the 
Clarksville High School in 1865. The professor has 
written the history of Pike County — but that is a big 
story all by itself. 

In the old days Pike County embraced many of the 
other present counties, and, running all the way from 
the Mississippi to the Missouri River, was as large as a 
good-sized State. Pike has colonized more Western 
country than any other county in Missouri; or, as Pro- 
fessor Goodman put it, 'The west used to be full of 
Pike County men who had pushed out there with their 
guns and bottles." 

"Yes," added Mr. Roberts in his dry, crackling tone, 
"and wherever they went they always wanted office." 

I asked Mr. Roberts about the famous poker games 
on the river boats. 

'T antedate poker," he said. "The old river card 
game was called 'Brag.' It was out of brag that the 
game of poker developed. A steward on one of the 
boats once told me that he and the other boys had picked 
up more than a hundred dollars from the floor of a room 
in which Henry Clay and some friends had been play- 
ing brag." 

Golden days indeed ! — and for every one. The steam- 
boat companies made fabulous returns on their invest- 
ments. 

268 




I'M' ) J 
•''J f,': 




Mr. Roberts is a wonder — nothing less. There's a book in him, and 
I hope that somebody will write it, for I should like to read that book 



OLD RIVER DAYS 

"In '54 and '55," said Mr. Roberts, ''I worked for 
the St. Louis & Keokuk Packet Company, a line owning 
three boats, which weren't worth over $75,000. That 
company cleaned up as much as $150,000 clear profit in 
one season. And, of course, a season was n't an entire 
year, either. It would open about March first and end 
in December or, in a mild winter, January. 

''But I tell you we used to drive those boats. We 'd 
shoot up to the docks and land our passengers and mail 
and freight without so much as tying up or even stop- 
ping. We 'd just scrape along the dock and then be 
off again. 

"The highest fare ever charged between St. Louis 
and Keokuk was $4 for the 200 miles. That included 
a berth, wine, and the finest old Southern cooking a man 
ever tasted. The best cooks I 've ever seen in my life 
were those old steamboat cooks. And we gave 'em good 
stuff to cook, too. We bought the best of everything. 
You ought to see the steaks we had for breakfast ! The 
officers used to sit at the ladies' end of the table and 
serve out of big chafing dishes. I tell you those were 
meals! 

"There was lots going on all the time on the river. 
I remember one trip I made in '52 in the old 'Di Ver- 
non' — all the boats in the line were named for characters 
in Scott's novels. We were coming from New Orleans 
with 350 German immigrants on deck and 100 Cali- 
fornians in the cabin. The Californians were sports 
and they had a big game going all the time. We had 

269 



ABROAD AT HOME 

two gamblers on board, too — John McKenzie and his 
partner, a man named Wilburn. They used to come on 
to the boats at different places, and make out to be farm- 
ers, and not acquainted with each other, and there was 
always something doing when they got into the game. 

"Well, this time cholera broke out among the immi- 
grants on the deck. They began dying on us. But we 
had a deckload of lumber, so we were well fixed to han- 
dle 'em. We took the lumber and built coffins for 'em, 
and when they 'd die we 'd put 'em in the coffins and save 
'em until we got enough to make it worth stopping to 
bury 'em. Then we 'd tie up by some woodyard and be 
loading up with wood for the furnaces while the burying 
was going on. Some twenty-five or thirty of 'em died 
on that trip, and we planted 'em at various points along 
the way. And all the while, up there in the cabin, the 
big game was going on — each fellow trying to cheat the 
other. 

''After we got to St. Louis there was a report that 
we 'd huried a man with $3,500 sewed into his clothes. 
Of course we did n't know which was which or where 
we 'd buried this man. Well, sir, that started the great- 
est bunch of mining operations along the river bank be- 
tween New Orleans and St. Louis that anybody ever 
saw! Every one was digging for that German. Far 
as I heard, though, they never found a dollar of 
him." 

Some one in Clarksville (in my notes I neglected to 
set down the origin of this particular item) told me that 

270 



OLD RIVER DAYS 

the term "stateroom" originated on the Mississippi 
boats, where the various rooms were named after the 
States of the Union, a legend which, if true, is worth 
preserving. 

Another interesting item relates to the origin of the 
slang term ''piker," which, whatever it ma}^ have meant 
originally, is used to-day to designate a timid, close- 
fisted gambler, a "tightwad" or "short sport." 

When one inquires as to the origin of this term, Pike 
County, Missouri, begins to remember that there is an- 
other Pike County — Pike County, Illinois, just across 
the river, which, incidentally, is I think, the "Pike" re- 
ferred to in John Hay's poem. 

A gentleman in Clarksville explained the origin of 
the term "piker" to me thus : 

"In the early days men from Pike County, Missouri, 
and Pike County, Illinois, went all through the West. 
They were all good men. In fact, they were such a 
fine lot that when any crooks would want to represent 
themselves as honest men they would say they were from 
Pike. As a result of this all the bad men in the West 
claimed to be from our section, and in that way Pike got 
a bad name. So when the westerners suspected a man 
of being crooked, they 'd say : 'Look out for him ; he 's 
a Piker.' " 

In St. Louis I was given another version. There I 
was told that long ago men would come down from 
Pike to gamble. They loved cards, but oftentimes 
had n't enough money to play a big game. So, it was 

271 



ABROAD AT HOME 

said, the term "Piker" came to indicate more or less the 
type it indicates to-day. 

No bit of character and color which we met upon our 
travels remains in my mind more pleasantly than the 
talk we had with those fine old men around the stove 
in the back room of the bank of Mr. John O. Roberts, 
there at Clarksville. Mr. Roberts is a wonder — noth- 
ing less. There 's a book in him, and I hope that some- 
body will write it, for I should like to read that book. 

As we were leaving the bank another gentleman came 
in. We were introduced to him. His name proved also 
to be John O. Rol^erts — for he was the banker's son, 

''Yes," the elder Mr. Roberts explained to me, "and 
there 's another John O. Roberts, too — my grandson. 
We 're all John O. Robertses in this family. We per- 
petuate the name because it 's an honest na;Tie. No 
John O. Roberts ever went to the penitentiary — or to 
the legislature." 



272 



THE BEGINNING OF THE WEST 



CHAPTER XXII 
KANSAS CITY 

IF you will take a map of the United States and fold 
it so that the Atlantic and Pacific coast lines over- 
lap, the crease at the center will form a line which 
runs down through the Dakotas, Nebraska, and Kansas. 
That is not, however, the true dividing line between 
East and West. If I were to try to draw the true line, 
I should begin at the north, bringing my pencil down 
between the cities of St. Paul and Minneapolis, leaving 
the former to the east, and the latter to the west, and I 
should follow down through the middle of Minnesota, 
Iowa, and Missouri, so that St. Louis would be included 
on the eastern map and Kansas City and Omaha on the 
western. 

My companion and I had long looked forward to the 
West, and had speculated as to where we should first 
meet it. And sometimes, as we traveled on, we doubted 
that there really was a West at all, and feared that the 
whole country had become monotonously "standard- 
ized," as was recently charged by a correspondent of the 
London "Times." 

I remember that we discussed that question on the 

275 



ABROAD AT HOME 

train, leaving" St. Louis, wondering whether Kansas 
City, whither we were bound, would prove to be but one 
more city like the rest — a place with skyscrapers and 
shops and people resembling, almost exactly, the sky- 
scrapers and shops and people of a dozen other cities we 
had seen. 

Morning in the sleeping car found us less concerned 
about the character of cities than about our coffee. 
Coffee was not to be had upon the train. In cheerless 
emptiness we sat and waited for the station. 

While my berth was being turned into its daytime 
aspect, I was forced to accept a seat beside a stranger: 
a little man with a black felt hat, a weedy mustache of 
neutral color, and an Elk's button. I had a feeling that 
he meant to talk with me; a feeling which amounted to 
dread. Nothing appeals to me at seven in the morning; 
least of all a conversation. At that hour my enthusiasm 
shows only a low blue flame, like a gas jet turned down 
almost to the point of going out. And in the feeble light 
of that blue flame, my fellow man becomes a vague 
shape, threatening unsolicited civilities. I do not like 
the hour of seven in the morning anywhere, and if there 
is one condition under which I loathe it most, it is before 
breakfast in a smelly sleeping car. I saw the little man 
regarding me. He was about to speak. And there I 
was, absolutely at his mercy, without so much as a news- 
paper behind which to shield myself. 

"Are you from New York?" he asked. 

With about the same amount of effort it would take 

276 



KANSAS CITY 

to make a long after-dinner speech, I managed to enun- 
ciate a hollow : *'Yes." 

"I thought so," he returned. 

It seemed to me that the remark required no answer. 
He waited; then, presently, vouchsafed the added in- 
formation: 'T knew it by your shoes." 

Mechanically I looked at my shoes; then at his. I 
felt like saying: "Why? Because my shoes are pol- 
ished?" But I didn't. All I said was, "Oh." 

"That 's a New York last," he explained. "Long and 
flat. You can't get a shoe like that out in this section. 
Nobody 'd buy 'em if we made 'em." Then he added: 
"I 'm in the shoe line, myself." 

He paused as though expecting me to state my "line." 
However, I did n't. Very likely he thought it some- 
thing shameful. After a moment's silence, he asked: 
"Travel out this way much?" 

"Never," I said. 

"Never been in Kansas City?" 

I shook my head. 

"Well," he volunteered, "it 's a great town. Great- 
est farm implement market in the world." (He drawled 
"world" as though it were spelled with a double R.) 
"Very little manufacturing but a great distributing 
point. All cattle and farming out here. Everything 
depends on the crops. Different from the East." 

I looked out of the window. 

It was different from the East. Even through the 
smoky fog I saw that. 

V7 



ABROAD AT HOME 

''Kansas City!" called the negro porter. 

I arose with a sigh, said good-by to the little man, and 
made my way from the car. 

The heavy mist was laden with a smoky smell like 
that of an incipient London fog. Through it I dis- 
cerned, dimly, a Vesuvian hill, piling up to the left, while, 
to the right, a maze of tracks and trains lost themselves 
in the gray blur. Immediately before me stood as dis- 
reputable a station as I ever saw, its platforms oozing 
mud, and its doorways oozing immigrants and other 
forlorn travelers. Of all the people there, I observed 
but two who were agreeable to the eye: a young girl, 
admirably modish, and her mother. But even looking 
at this girl I remained depressed. "You don't belong 
here," I wished to say to her, "that 's clear enough. No 
one like you could live in such a place. You need n't 
think / live here, either ; for I don't ! Most decidedly I 
don't!" 

We got into a taxi, my companion and I, and the taxi 
started immediately to climb with us, like a mountain 
goat, ascending a steep hill in leaps, over an atrocious 
pavement, and between vacant lots and shabby buildings 
which seemed to me to presage an undeveloped town and, 
worse yet, a bad hotel. 

My companion must have thought as I did, for I re- 
member his saying in a somber tone : 'T guess we 're 
in for it this time, all right !" 

Those are the first words that I recall his having 
spoken that morning. 

278 



KANSAS CITY 

After ascending for some time, we began to coast 
down again, still through unprepossessing thorough- 
fares, until at last 'we slid up in the mud to the door 
of the Hotel Baltimore — one of the busiest hotels in the 
whole United States. 

On sight of the hotel I took a little heart. Break- 
fast was near and the hostelry looked promising. It 
was, indeed, the first building that I saw in Kansas City, 
that seemed to justify ''City." 

The coffee at the Baltimore proved good. We saw 
that we were in a large and capably conducted cara- 
vansary — a metropolitan hotel with a dining room like 
some interior in the capitol of Minnesota, and a Pom- 
peian room, the very look of which bespoke a cabaret 
performance at a later hour. From the window where 
we sat at breakfast we saw wagons with brakes set, 
descending the hill, and streams of people hurrying on 
their way to work: sturdy-looking men and healthy- 
looking girls, the latter stamped with that cheap yet 
indisputable style so characteristic of the young Ameri- 
can working woman — a sort of down-at-the-heels showi- 
ness in dress, which, combined with an elaborate coiffure 
and a fine, if slightly affected carriage, makes her at 
once a pretty and pathetic object. 

In Kansas City one is well within the borders of the 
land of silver dollars. Dollar bills are scarce. Pay for 
a cigar with a $5 bill, and your change is more than likely 
to include four of those silver cartwheels which, though 
merely annoying in ordinary times, must be a real source 

279 



ABROAD AT HOME 

of danger when the floods come, as one understands 
they sometimes do in Kansas City. Not only are small 
bills scarce but, I fancy, the humble copper cent is viewed 
in Kansas City with less respect than in the East. I 
base this conclusion upon the fact that a dignified old 
negro, wearing a bronze medal suspended from a ribbon 
tied about his neck, charged me five cents at the door of 
the dining room for a one-cent paper — a rate of extor- 
tion surpassing that of New York hotel news stands. 
However, as that paper was the Kansas City "Star," I 
raised no objection; for the "Star" is a great newspaper. 
But of that presently. 

Later I found fastened to the wall of my bathroom 
something which, as I learned afterward, is quite com- 
mon among hotels in the West, but which I have never 
seen in an eastern hotel — a slot machine which, for a 
quarter, supplies any of the following articles: tooth 
paste, listerine, cold cream, bromo lithia, talcum powder, 
a toothbrush, a shaving stick, or a safety razor. 

Counterbalancing this convenience, however, I found 
in my room but one telephone instrument, although 
Kansas City is served by two separate companies. This 
proved annoying; calls coming by the Missouri & Kan- 
sas Telephone Company's lines reached me in my room, 
but those coming over the wires of the Home Telephone 
Company had to be answered downstairs, whither I was 
summoned twice that morning — once from my bath and 
once while shaving. I had not been in Kansas City half 
a day before discovering that monopoly — at least in the 

280 



KANSAS CITY 

case of the telephone — has its very definite advantages. 
A double system of telephones is a nuisance. Even 
where, as for instance in Portland, Oregon, there are 
two instruments in each room, one never knows which 
bell is ringing. Duplication is unnecessary, and where 
there are two companies, lack of duplication is annoying. 
Every home or office in Kansas City provided with but 
one instrument is cut off from communication with 
many other homes and offices having the other service, 
while those having both instruments have to pay the 
price of two. 

It always amuses me to hear criticisms by foreigners 
of the telephone as perfected in this country. And our 
sleeping cars and telephones are the things they in- 
variably do criticize. As to the sleeping car there may 
be some justice in complaints, although it seems to me 
that, under the conditions for which it is designed, the 
Pullman car would be hard to improve upon. It is the 
necessity of going to bed while traveling by rail that is 
at the bottom of the trouble. But when a foreigner 
criticizes the American telephone the very thing he 
criticizes is its perfection. If we had bad tele- 
phone service, and did n't use the telephone much, it 
would be all right, according to the European point 
of view. But as it is, they say we are the instrument's 
"slaves." 

That was the complaint of Dr. George Brandes, the 
Danish literary critic. "The telephone is the worst in- 
strument of torture that ever existed," he declared. 

281 



ABROAD AT HOME 

"The medieval rack and thumb-screws were playthings 
compared with it." 

Arnold Bennett, in his "Your United States," tells 
of having permanently removed the receiver from the 
telephone in his bedroom in a Chicago hotel. His ac- 
tion, he declares, caused agitation, not merely in the 
hotel, but throughout the city. 

"In response to the prayer di a deputation from the 
management," he writes, "I restored the receiver. On 
the horrified face of the deputation I could read the un- 
spoken query: 'Is it conceivable that you have been in 
this country a month without understanding that the 
United States is primarily nothing but a vast congeries 
of telephone cabins?' " 

Now, the thing which Mr. Bennett, Dr. Brandes, and 
many other distinguished visitors from Europe seem to 
fail to comprehend is this : that, being distinguished visi- 
tors, and therefore sought after, they are the telephone's 
especial victims, and consequently gain a wrong impres- 
sion of it. They themselves use it little as a means of 
calling others ; others use it much as a means of calling 
them. Furthermore, being strangers to this highly per- 
fected instrument, they are also, quite naturally 
strangers to telephonic subtleties. Mr. Bennett proved 
his entire lack of knowledge of the new science of tele- 
phone tact when he tried to stop the instrument by re- 
moving the receiver. Any American could have told 
him that all he need have done was to notify the opera- 
tor, at the switchboard, downstairs, not to permit him 

282 



KANSAS CITY 

to be disturbed until a certain hour. Or, if he had 
wished to do so, he could have asked her to sift his mes- 
sages, giving him only those she deemed desirable. He 
would have found her, I feel sure, as capable, on that 
score, as a well-trained private secretary, for, among 
the many effective services of the telephone, none is 
finer than that given by those capable, intelligent, quick- 
thinking young women who act as switchboard opera- 
tors in large hotels and offices. I am glad of this op- 
portunity to make my compliments to them. 

If an American wishes to appreciate the telephone, as 
developed in this country, he has but to try to use the 
telephone in Europe. In London the instrument is a 
ridiculous, cumbersome affair, looking as much like an 
enormous metal inkwell as any other thing — the kind of 
inkwell in which some emperor might dip his pen before 
signing his abdication. To call, you wind the crank 
violently for a time, then taking up the receiver and 
mouthpiece which are attached to the main instrument 
by a cord, you begin calling: ''Are you there, miss? 
Are you there? I say, miss, are you there?" And the 
question is quite reasonable, for half the time "miss" 
does not seem to be there. In Paris it is worse. Once, 
while residing in that city, I had a telephone in my apart- 
ment. It was intended as a convenience, but it turned 
out to be an irritating kind of joke. The first time I 
tried to call my house, from the center of town, it took 
me three times as long to get the connection as it took 
me to get New York from Kansas City. In the begin- 

283 



ABROAD AT HOME 

ning I thought myself the victim of ill luck, but I soon 
came to understand that was not the case — or, rather, 
that the ill luck was of a kind experienced by all users of 
the telephone in Paris. The service there is simply 
chaotic. It is actually true that I once dispatched a 
messenger on a bicycle, calling my house on the phone, 
immediately afterward, and that the messenger had ar- 
rived with the note, after having ridden a good two 
miles, through traffic, by the time I succeeded in talking 
over the wire. However, in the interim I had talked 
with almost every other residence in Paris. 

The telephones in France and England are controlled 
by the government. If that accounts for the service 
given, then I hope the government in this country will 
never take them over. Bureaucracy makes the Conti- 
nental railroads inferior to ours, and I have no doubt it 
is equally responsible for telephone conditions. Bu- 
reaucracy, as I have experienced it, feels itself in- 
trenched in office, and is consequently likely to be in- 
different to complaint and to the requirements of 
progress. When I called New York from Kansas 
City I was talking within ten minutes, and when, 
later on, I called New York from Denver, it took but 
little longer, and I heard, and made myself heard, al- 
most as though conversing with some one in the next 
room. As I reflect upon the countless services per- 
formed for me by the telephone, upon these travels, and 
upon the very different sort of service I should have had 
abroad, I bless the American Telephone and Telegraph 

284 



KANSAS CITY 

Company with fervent blessings. And if I said about 
it all the things I really think, I fear the reader might 
suspect me of having received a bribe. For I am aware 
that, in speaking well of any corporation I am flying in 
the face of precedent and public opinion. 



Toward noon, the pall of smoke and fog which had 
blanketed the city, vanished on a fresh breeze from the 
prairies, and my companion and I, much inspirited, set 
forth on foot to see what the downtown streets of Kan- 
sas City had to offer. We had gone hardly a block be- 
fore we realized that our earlier impressions of the place 
had been ill-founded. We had arrived in the least 
agreeable portion of the city, and had not, hitherto, seen 
any of the built-up, well-paved streets. "Petticoat 
Lane" — the fashionable shopping district on Eleventh 
Street between Main Street and Grand Avenue — has a 
metropolitan appearance, and the wider avenues, with 
their well-built skyscrapers, tell a story of substantiality 
and progress. But the most striking thing to us, upon 
that walk, lay not in the great buildings already stand- 
ing, but in the embryonic structures everywhere. All 
over Kansas City old buildings are coming down to make 
place for new ones ; hills of clay are being gouged away 
and foundations dug; steel frames are shooting up. 
Never, before or since, have I sensed, as I sensed that 
day, a city's growth. It seemed to me that I could feel 
expansion in the very ground beneath my feet. Look- 

285 



ABROAD AT HOME 

ing upon these multifarious activities was like looking 
through an enormous magnifying glass at some gigantic 
ant hill, where thousands upon thousands of workers 
were rushing about, digging, carrying, constructing, all 
in breathless haste. Nor was the incidental music lack- 
ing; the air was ringing with the symphony of work — 
the music of brick walls falling, of drills digging at the 
earth, and of automatic riveters clattering their swift, 
metallic song, high up among the tall, steel frames, 
where presently would stand desks, and filing cabinets, 
and typewriter machines. 

''Did you ever feel a city growing so?" I asked of my 
companion. 

''Grow!" he repeated. "Why it has grown so fast 
they have n't had time to name their streets." 

The statement appeared true. We had looked for 
street signs at all corners, but had seen none. Later, 
however, we discovered that the streets did have names. 
But as there are no signs, I conclude that the present 
names are only tentative, and that when Kansas City 
gets through building, she will name her streets in sober 
earnest, and mark them in order that strangers may 
more readily find their way. 

The "slogan", of Kansas City suggests that of De- 
troit. Detroit says : "In Detroit life is worth living." 
Kansas City is less boastful, but more aspiring. "Make 
it a good place to live in," she says. 

As nearly as I can like the "slogan" of any city, I like 
that one. I like it because it is not vainglorious, and 

286 



KANSAS CITY 

because it does not attempt cheap alliteration. It is not 
"smart-alecky" at all, but has, rather, the sound of some- 
thing genuinely felt. And I believe it is felt. There is 
every evidence that Kansas City's "slogan" is a promis- 
sory note — a note which, it may be added, she is paying 
ofif in a handsome manner, by improving herself rapidly 
in countless ways. 

Perhaps the first of her improvements to strike the 
visitor is her system of parks. I am informed that the 
parked boulevards of Kansas City exceed in mileage 
those of any other American city. These boulevards, 
connecting the various parks and forming circuits run- 
ning around and through the town, do go a long way 
toward making it "a good place to live in." Kansas 
City has every right to be proud, not only of her parks, 
but of herself for having had the intelligence and energy 
to make them. What if assessments have been high? 
Increased property values take care of that; the worst 
of the work and the expense is over, and Kansas City 
has lifted itself by its own bootstraps from ugliness to 
beauty. How much better it is to have done the whole 
thing quickly — to have made the gigantic effort and at- 
tained the parks and boulevards at what amounts to one 
great municipal bound — than to have dawdled and 
dreamed along as St. Louis and so many other cities 
have done. 

The Central Traffic Parkway of St. Louis is, as has 
been said in an earlier chapter, still on paper only. But 
the Paseo, and West Pennway, and Penn Valley Park, 

287 



ABROAD AT HOME 

in Kansas City, are all splendid realities, created in an 
amazingly brief space of years. To make the Paseo 
and West Pennway, the city cut through blocks and 
blocks, tearing down old houses or moving them away, 
with the result that dilapidated, disagreeable neighbor- 
hoods have been turned into charming residence dis- 
tricts. In the making of Penn Valley Park, the same 
thing occurred: the property was acquired at a cost of 
about $800,000, hundreds of houses were removed, 
drives were built, trees planted. The park is now a 
show place; both because of the lesson it offers other 
cities, and the splendid view, from its highest point, 
of the enterprising city which created it. 

Another spectacular panorama of Kansas City is to 
be seen from Observation Point on the western side of 
town, but the finest views of all (and among the finest 
to be seen in any city in the world) are those which rm- 
roll themselves below Scaritt Point, the Cliff Drive, and 
Kersey Coates Drive. Much as the Boulevard Lafay- 
ette skirts the hills beside the Hudson River, these drives 
make their way along the upper edge of the lofty 
cliffs which rise majestically above the Missouri River 
bottoms. Not only is their elevation much greater than 
that of the New York boulevard, but the view is in- 
finitely more extensive and dramatic, though perhaps 
less "pretty." Looking down from Kersey Coates 
Drive, one sees a long sweep of the Missouri, winding 
its course between the sandy shores which it so loves to 
inundate. Beyond, the whole world seems to be spread 

288 



I 



■^- 







Looking down from Kersey Coates Drive, one sees . . . the appalling 
web of railroad tracks, crammed with freight cars, whicli seen through a 
softening haze of smoke, resemble a relief map — strange, vast, and pictorial 



KANSAS CITY 

out — farms and woodland, reaching off into infinity. 

Below, in the nearer foreground, at the bottom of the 
cliff, is the mass of factories, warehouses and packing 
houses, and the appalling web of railroad tracks, 
crammed with freight cars, which form the Kansas City 
industrial district, and which, reduced by distance, and 
seen through a softening haze of smoke, resemble a re- 
lief map — strange, vast, and pictorial. Beyond, more 
distant and more hazy, lies the adjoining city, Kansas 
City, Kas., all its ugliness converted into beauty by the 
smoke which, whatever sins it may commit against 
white linen, spreads a poetic pall over the scenes of in- 
dustry — yes, and over the "wettest block," that solid 
wall of saloons with which the "wet" state of Missouri 
so significantly fortifies her frontier against the "dry" 
state, Kansas. 

So far, Kansas City has been too busy with her money- 
making and her physical improvement, to give much 
thought to art. However, the day will come, and very 
soon, when the question of mural decoration for some 
great public building will arise. And when that day does 
come I hope that some one will rise up and remind the 
city that the decorations which, figuratively, adorn her 
own walls, may well be considered as a subject for mural 
paintings. I should like to see a great room which, in- 
stead of being surrounded by a frieze of symbolic fig- 
ures, very much like every other frieze of symbolic fig- 
ures in the land, should show the splendid sweep of the 
Missouri River, and the great maze of the freight yards, 

289 



ABROAD AT HOME 

and the wonderful vistas to be seen from the chffs, and 
the rich, rolhng farm land beyond. How much better 
that would be than one of those trite things representing 
Justice or Commerce, as a female figure, enthroned, with 
Industry, a male figure, brown and half -naked, wearing 
a leather apron, and beating on an anvil, at one side, and 
Agriculture, working with a hoe, at the other. Yes, 
how much better it would be; and how much harder to 
find the painter who could do it as it should be done. 

In view of the enormous activity with which Kansas 
City has pursued the matter of municipal improvement, 
and in view of the contrasting somnolence of St. Louis, 
it is amusing to reflect upon the somewhat patronizing 
attitude assumed by the latter toward the former. Be- 
ing the metropolis of Missouri, St. Louis has the air, 
sometimes, of patting Kansas City on the back, in the 
same superior manner that St. Paul assumed, in times 
gone by, toward Minneapolis. It will be remembered, 
however, that one day St. Paul woke up to find her- 
self no longer the metropolis of Minnesota. Young 
Minneapolis had come up behind and passed her in 
the night. As I have said before, Kansas City bears 
more than one resemblance to Minneapolis. Like 
Minneapolis, she is a strong young city, vying for State 
supremacy with another city which is old, rich, and con- 
servative. Will the history of the Minnesota cities be 
repeated in Missouri? If some day it happens so, I 
shall not be surprised. 



290 



CHAPTER XXIII 
ODDS AND ENDS 

THE quality in Kansas City which struck Baron 
d'Estournelles de Constant, the French states- 
man and peace advocate, was the enormous 
growth and vitahty of the place. "Town Development" 
quotes the Baron as having called Kansas City a ''cite 
champignon/' but I am sure that in saying that he had 
in mind the growth of the mushroom rather than its 
fiber; for though Kansas City grew from nothing to a 
population of 250,000 within a space of fifty years, her 
fiber is exceptionally firm, and her prosperity, having 
been built upon the land, is sound. 

That feeling of nearness to the soil that I met there 
was new to me. I felt it in many ways. Much of the cas- 
ual conversation I heard dealt with cattle raising, farm- 
ing, the weather, and the promise as to crops. Business 
men and well-to-do women in the shopping districts re- 
semble people one may see in any other city, but away 
from the heart of town one encounters numerous 
farmers and their wives who have driven into town in 
their old buggies, farm wagons, or little motors to shop 
and trade, just as though Kansas City were some little 
county seat, instead of a city of the size of Edinburgh. 

291 



ABROAD AT HOME 

In earlier chapters I have referred to Hkenesses be- 
tween cities and individuals. Cities not only have traits 
of character, like men, but certain regions have their 
costumes. Collars, for example, tend to become lower 
toward the Mississippi River, and black string ties ap- 
pear. Missouri likes black suits — older men in the 
smaller towns seem to be in a perpetual state of mourn- 
ing, like those Breton women whose men are so often 
drowned at sea that they never take the trouble to re- 
move their black. 

Western watch chains incline to massiveness, and are 
more likely than not to have dangling from them large 
golden emblems with mysterious devices. Likewise the 
western buttonhole is almost sure to bloom with the 
insignia of some secret order. 

Many western men w^ear diamond rings — pieces of 
jewelry which the east allots to ladies or to gamblers 
and vulgarians. When I inquired about this I heard a 
piece of interesting lore. I was informed that the dia- 
mong ring was something more than an adornment to 
the western man; that it was, in reality, the survival 
of a fashion which originated for the most practical 
reasons. A diamond is not only convenient to carry 
but it may readily be converted into cash. So, in the 
wilder western days, men got into the way of wearing 
diamond rings as a means of raising funds for gambling 
on short notice, or for making a c^uick getaway from 
the scene of some affray. 

Whether they are entirely aware of it or not, the well- 

292 



ODDS AND ENDS 

dressed men of eastern cities are, in the matter of cos- 
tume, dominated to a large extent by London. The 
EngHsh mode, however, does not reach far west. 
Clothing in the west is all American. Take, for ex- 
ample, coats. The prevailing style, at the moment, 
in London and in the eastern cities of this country 
happens to run to a snugness of fit amounting to 
actual tightness. Little does this disturb the western 
man. His coat is cut loose and is broad across the 
shoulders. And let me add that I believe his vision is 
"cut" broader, too. Westerners, far more than east- 
erners, it seems to me, sense the United States — the size 
of it and what it really is. Time and again, talking 
with them, it has come to me that their eyes are focused 
for a longer range : that, looking off toward the horizon, 
they see a thousand miles of farms stretched out before 
them or a thousand miles of mountain peaks. 

And even as coats and comprehension seem to widen 
in the west, so hats and hearts grow softer. The derby 
plays an unimportant part. In Chicago, to be sure, it 
makes a feeble effort for supremacy, but west of there 
it dies an ignominious death beneath an avalanche of 
soft felt hats. Felt hats around Chicago seem, however, 
to lack full-blown western opulence. Compared with 
hats in the real middle west, they are stingy little 
headpieces. When we were in Chicago that city seemed 
to be the center of a section in which a peculiar style of 
hat was prominent — a blue felt with a velvet band. But 
that, of course, was merely a passing fashion. Not so 

293 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the hats a little farther west. The Mississippi River 
marks the beginning of the big black hat belt. The big 
black hat is passionately adored in Missouri and Kansas. 
It never changes; never goes out of fashion. And it 
may be further noted that many of these somber, monu- 
mental, soft black hats, with their high crowns and wide- 
spread brims, have been sent from these two western 
states to Washington, D. C. 

At Kansas City there begins another hat belt. The 
Missouri hat remains, but its supremacy begins to be 
disputed by an even larger hat, of similar shape but dif- 
ferent color. The big black, tan or putty-color hat be- 
gins to show at Kansas City. Also one sees, now and 
again, upon the streets a cowboy hat with a flat brim. 
When I mentioned that to a Kansas City man he did n't 
seem to like it. With passionate vehemence he declared 
that cowboy hats were never known to adorn the heads 
of Kansas City men — that they only came to Kansas 
City on the heads of itinerant cattlemen. Well, that is 
doubtless true. But I did not say the Mayor of Kansas 
City wore one. I only said I saw such hats upon the 
street. And — however they got there, and wherever 
they came from — those hats looked good to me ! 

Some of the bronzed cattlemen one sees in Kansas 
City, though they yield to civilization to the extent of 
wearing shirts, have not yet sunk to the slavery of col- 
lars. They do not wear "chaps" and revolvers, it is 
true, but they are clearly plainsmen, and some of them 
sport colored handkerchiefs about their necks, knotted 

294 



ODDS AND ENDS 

in the back, and hanging in loose folds in front. Once 
or twice, upon my walks, I saw an Indian as well, though 
not a really first-class moving-picture Indian. That is 
too much to expect. Such Indians as one may meet in 
Kansas City are civilized and citified to a sad degree. 
Nor are the Mexicans, many of whom are employed as 
laborers, up to specifications as to picturesqueness. 

I feel it particularly necessary to state these truths, 
disillusioning though they may be to certain youthful 
readers who may treasure fond hopes of finding, in 
Kansas City, something of that wild and woolly fascina- 
tion which the cinematograph so often pictures. True, 
a large gray wolf was killed by a Kansas City policeman 
last winter, after it had run down Linwood Boulevard, 
biting people, but that does not happen every day, and 
it is recorded that the youth who recently appeared on 
the Kansas City streets, dressed in "chaps" and carrying 
a revolver with which he shot at the feet of pedestrians, 
to make them dance, declared himself, when taken up by 
the police, to have recently arrived from Philadelphia, 
where he had obtained his ideas of western manners 
from the "movies." 

I mention this incident because, after having labeled 
Kansas City "Western," I wish to leave no loopholes 
for misunderstanding. The West of Bret Harte and 
Jesse James is gone. All that is left of it is legend. 
When I speak of a western city I think of a city young, 
not altogether formed, but full of dauntless energy. 
And when I speak of western people I think of people 

295 



ABROAD AT HOME 

who possess, in larger measure than any other people I 
have met, the solid traits of character which make hu- 
man beings admirable. 

Kansas City is said to be more American than any 
other city of its size in the United States. Eighty per 
cent, of its people are American born, of either native or 
foreign parents. Its inhabitants are either pioneers, de- 
scendants of pioneers, or young people who have moved 
there for the sake of opportunity. This makes for 
sturdy stock as inevitably as close association with the 
soil makes for sturdy simplicity of character. The 
western man, as I try to visualize him as a type, is gen- 
uine, generous, direct, whole-hearted, sympathetic, en- 
ergetic, strong, and — I say it not without some hesita- 
tion — sometimes a little crude, with a kind of crudeness 
which has about it something very lovable. I fear that 
Kansas City may not like the word "crude," even as I 
have qualified it, but, however she may feel, I hope she 
will not charge the use of it to eastern snobbishness in 
me, for that is a quality that I detest as much as any- 
body does — a quality compared with which crudeness be- 
comes a primary virtue. No; when I say "crude" I say 
it respectfully, and I am ready to admit in the same 
breath that I dislike the word myself, because it seems 
to imply more than I really wish to say, just as such a 
word as "unseasoned" seems to imply less. 

You see, Kansas City is a very young and very great 
center of business. It is still engrossed in making 
money, but, being so exceptionally sturdy, it has found 

296 



I 



ODDS AND ENDS 

time, outside of business hours, as it were, to create its 
parks and boulevards — much as some young business 
man comes home after a hard day's work and cuts the 
grass in his front yard, and waters it, and even plants a 
little garden for his wife and children and himself. He 
attends to the requirements of his business, his family, 
his lawn and garden, and to his duties as a citizen. And 
that is about all that he has time to do. He has the 
Christian virtues, but none of the un-Christian sophisti- 
cations. Art, to him, probably signifies a "fancy head" 
by Harrison Fisher; literature, a book by Harold Bell 
Wright or Gene Stratton Porter; music, a sentimental 
ballad or a ragtime tune played on the Victor; archi- 
tecture — well, I think that means his own house. 

And what is his own house like? If he be a young 
and fairly successful Kansas City business man, it is, 
first of all, probably a solid, well-built house. Very 
likely it is built of brick and is "detached" — just barely 
detached — and faces a parked boulevard or a homelike 
residence street which is lined with other solid little 
houses, like his own. Now, while the homes of this 
class are, I think, better built and more attractive than 
homes of corresponding cost in some older cities — 
Cleveland, for example — and while the streets are pleas- 
anter, there is a sort of standardized look about 
these houses which is, I think, unfortunate. The thing 
they lack is individuality. Whole rows of them sug- 
gest that they were all designed by the same altogether 
honest, but somewhat inartistic, architect, who, having 

297 



ABROAD AT HOME 

hit on one or two good plans, kept repeating them, ad 
infinitum, with only minor changes, such as the use of 
vari-colored brick, for "character," True, they are 
monuments to the esthetic, compared with the old 
brownstone blocks of New York City, or the Queen 
Anne blocks of cities such as Cleveland, but it must be 
remembered that New York's brownstone period, and 
the wooden Queen Anne period, date back a good many 
years, whereas these Kansas City houses are new. 
And it is in our new houses that we Americans have 
had a chance to show (and are showing) the improve- 
ment in our national taste. I do not complain that the 
domestic architecture of Kansas City represents no im- 
provement; I complain only that the improvement 
shown is not so great as it should be — that Kansas City 
residences, of all classes, inexpensive and expensive, 
in town and in the suburban developments, are gen- 
erally characterized by solidity, rather than architec- 
tural merit. The less expensive houses lack distinction 
in about the same way that rows of good ready-made 
overcoats may be said to lack it, when compared with 
overcoats made to order by expensive tailors. The 
more costly houses are for the most part ordinary — and 
some of them are worse than that. 

I am well aware of the fact that the foregoing state- 
ments are altogether likely to surprise and annoy Kan- 
sas City, for if there is one thing, beyond her parks and 
boulevards, upon which she congratulates herself pecu- 
liarly, it is her homes. I could detect that, both in the 

298 



ODDS AND ENDS 

pride with which the homes were shown to me and in 
the sad silences with which my very mildly critical com- 
ments on some houses, were received. Nevertheless, it 
is quite true that Kansas City very evidently needs a 
good domestic architect or two ; and if she does not par- 
don me just now for saying so, I must console myself 
with the thought that, ten or fifteen years hence, she 
will admit that what I said was true. 

Kansas City ought to be a good place for architects. 
There is a lot of money there, and, as I have already 
said, a great amount of building is in progress. One 
of the most interesting real estate developments I have 
ever seen is taking place in what is called the Country 
Club District, where a tract of 1,200 acres, which, only 
five or six years ago, was farm land, has been attrac- 
tively laid out and very largely built up on ingenious, 
restricted lines. In the portion of this district known 
as Sunset Hill, no house costing less than $25,000 may 
be erected. As a matter of fact, a number of houses on 
Sunset Hill show an investment, in building alone, of 
from $50,000 to $100,000. In other portions of the 
tract restrictions are lower, and still. lower, until finally 
one comes to a suburban section closely built up with 
homes, some of which cost as little as $3,000 — which is 
the lowest restriction in the entire district. 

I visited the new Union Station, which will be in 
operation this winter. It is as fine as the old station is 
atrocious. I was informed that it cost between six and 

299 



ABROAD AT HOME 

seven millions, and that it is exceeded in size only by 
the Grand Central and Pennsylvania terminals in New 
York. The waiting room will, however, be the largest 
in the world. The gentleman who showed me the sta- 
tion gave me the curious information that Kansas City 
does the largest Pullman business of any American city, 
and that it also handles the most baggage. He at- 
tributed these facts to the great distances to be traveled 
in that part of the country and also to the prosperity of 
the farmers. 

"You see," he said, "Kansas City has the largest un- 
disputed tributary trade territory of any city in the 
country. We are not, in reality, a Missouri city so 
much as a Kansas one. Indeed Kansas City was orig- 
inally intended to be in Kansas and was really diverted 
into Missouri when the government survey established 
the line between the two states. We reach out into 
Missouri for some business, but Kansas is our real ter- 
ritory, as well as Oklahoma and Arkansas. We get a 
good share of business from Nebraska and Iowa, too. 
These facts, plus the fact that we are in the very center 
of the great American feed lot, account for our big 
bank clearings. In bank clearings we come sixth, St. 
Louis being fifth, Pittsburgh seventh, and Detroit 
eighth. And we are not to be compared in population 
with any of those cities. 

"Almost all our greatest activities have to do with 
farms and produce. We are first as a market place for 
hay and yellow pine; second as a packing center and a 

300 



J 



I 



ODDS AND ENDS 

mule market; third in lumber, flour, poultry, and eggs, 
in the volume of our telegraph business, and in auto- 
mobile sales. And, of course, you probably know that 
we lead in the sale of agricultural implements and in 
stockers and feeders." 

At that my companion, who, because he resided for a 
long time in Albany, N. Y., prides himself upon his 
knowledge of farming, broke in. 

"I suppose," said he, "that instead of drawing stock- 
ers and feeders with horses, they use gasoline motors 
nowadays ?" 

"Oh, no," said the Kansas City man, "they walk." 

"Walk?" exclaimed my companion. "They haz'c 
made an advance in agricultural implements since my 
day if they have succeeded in making them zvalk!" 

"I 'm not speaking of agricultural implements," said 
our informant. "I 'm speaking of stockers and feed- 
ers." 

"What are stockers and feeders?" I asked. 

"Cattle," he said. "There are three kinds of cattle 
marketed here; first, fat cattle, for slaughter; second, 
stockers, which are young cows used for stocking farms 
and ranches; third, feeders, or grassfed steers, which 
are sold to be fattened on grain, for killing. In stockers 
and feeders we lead the world ; in fat cattle we are sec- 
ond only to Chicago." 



301 



CHAPTER XXIV 
COLONEL NELSON'S "STAR'' 

WHAT do you expect to see in Kansas City?" 
I was asked by the president of a trust 
company. 

"I want to see the new Union Station," I said, ''and 
I hope also to meet Colonel Nelson." 

He smiled. "One 's as big as the other," was his 
comment. 

That is a mild statement of the case. The power of 
Colonel Nelson is something unique, and his newspaper, 
the Kansas City "Star," is, I believe, alone in the posi- 
tion it holds among American dailies. 

Like all powerful newspapers, it is the expression of 
a single individuality. The "Star" expresses Colonel 
William Rockhill Nelson as definitely as the New York 
"Sun" used to express Charles A. Dana, as the New 
York "Tribune" expressed Horace Greeley, as the 
"Herald" expressed Bennett, as the Chicago "Tribune" 
expressed Medill, as the "Courier-Journal" expresses 
Watterson, as the Pulitzer papers continue to express 
the late Joseph Pulitzer, and as the Hearst papers ex- 
press William Randolph Hearst. 

Besides circulating widely throughout Kansas, 
Oklahoma, Arkansas, and western Missouri, the "Star" 

302 



COLONEL NELSON'S "STAR" 

so dominates Kansas City that last year it sold, in the 
city, many thousand papers a day in excess of the num- 
ber of houses there. Other papers have been started 
to combat it, but without appreciable effect. The 
"Star" continues upon its majestic course, towing the 
wagon of Kansas City. 

To me the greatest thing about the "Star" is its en- 
tire freedom from yellowness. Its appearance is as 
conservative as that of the New York "Evening Post." 
It prints no scareheads and no half-tone pictures, such 
pictures as it uses being redrawn in line, so that they 
print sharply. Another characteristic of the paper is 
its highly localized flavor. It handles relatively little 
European news, and even the doings of New York and 
Chicago seem to impress it but slightly. It is the or- 
gan of the "feed lot," the "official gazette" of the capital 
of the Southwest. 

While contemplating the "Star" I was reminded of a 
conversation held many weeks before in Buffalo with a 
very thoughtful gentleman. 

"The great trouble with the American people," he de- 
clared, "is that they are not yet a thinking people." 

"What makes you believe that?" I asked. 

"The first proof of it," he returned, "is that they 
read yellow journals." 

It is a notable and admirable fact that the people of 
Kansas — the State which Colonel Nelson considers par- 
ticularly his own- — do not read the "yellows" to any con- 
siderable extent. ("I might stop publishing this pa- 

303 



ABROAD AT HOME 

per," Colonel Nelson said, "but it will never get yel- 
low." And later: "Anybody can print the news, but 
the 'Star' tries to build things up. That is what a news- 
paper is for.") 

Even the "Star" building is highly individualized. 
It is a great solid pile of tapestry brick, suggesting a 
castle in Siena. In one end are the presses ; in the other 
the business and editorial departments. The editorial 
offices are in a single vast room, in a corner of which 
the Colonel's flat-top desk is placed. There are no pri- 
vate offices. The city editor and his reporters have 
their desks at the center, under a skylight, and the edi- 
torial writers, telegraph editor, Sunday editor, and all 
the other editors are distributed about the room's peri- 
meter. 

Before talking with Colonel Nelson I inquired into 
some of the reforms brought about through the efforts 
of the "Star." The list of them is formidable. Many 
persons attributed the existence of the present park 
and boulevard system to this great newspaper; among 
other things mentioned were the following : the improve- 
ment of schools ; the abolition of quack doctors, medi- 
cal museums and fortune tellers ; the building of county 
roads; the elimination of bill-boards from the boule- 
vards; the boat line navigating the Missouri River; the 
introduction of commission government in Kansas City, 
Kas. (which, I was informed, was the first city of its 
size to have commission government) ; the municipal 
ownership of waterworks in both Kansas Cities, More 

304 







Colonel Nelson is a "character." Even if he did n't 
own the "Star," ... he would be a "character." . . . 
I have called him a volcano ; he is more like one than 
any other man I have ever met 



I 



COLONEL NELSON'S "STAR" 

recently the "Star" has been fighting for what it terms 
"free justice" — that is, the dispensing of justice with- 
out costs or attorneys' fees, as it is already dispensed 
in the "small debtors" courts of Kansas City and 
through the free legal-aid bureau. Colonel Nelson 
says: " 'Free justice' would t.ake the judicial adminis- 
tration of the law out of the hands of privately paid at- 
torneys and place it wholly in the hands of courts 
officered by the public's servants. 

"In the great majority of cases justice is still not 
free. A man must hire his lawyer. So justice is not 
only not free but not equal. A poor owner of a legal 
right gives a $5 fee to a $5 lawyer. A rich defender 
of a legal wrong gives a $5,000 fee to a $5,000 lawyer. 
The scales of a purchased justice tip to the wrong side. 
Or, even if the owner of the legal right gets his right 
established by the court, he still must divide the value of 
it with his attorney. The administration of justice 
should be as free as the making of laws. It should be 
as free as police service." 

The "Star" has been hammering away at this idea 
for months, precisely as it has been hammering at politi- 
cal corruption, wherever found. Another "Star" cru- 
sade is for a 25-acre park opposite the new Union Sta- 
tion, instead of the small plaza originally planned — 
the danger in the case of the latter being that, although 
it does provide some setting for the station, it yet per- 
mits cheap buildings to encroach to a point sufficiently 
near the station to materially detract from it. 

305 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Many lawyers disapprove of the ''free justice" idea; 
all the politically corrupt loathe the "Star" for obvious 
reasons; and some taxpayers may be found who cry 
out that Colonel Nelson pushes Kansas City into im- 
provements faster than she ought to go. Nevertheless, 
as with the 'Tost-Dispatch" in St. Louis, the "Star" is 
read alike by those who believe in it and those who hate 
it bitterly. 

As an outsider fascinated by the "Star's" activities, 
I came away with the opinion that Colonel Nelson's 
power was perhaps greater than that of any other sin- 
gle newspaper publisher in the country; that it was 
perhaps too great for one man to wield, but that, exer- 
cised by such a pure idealist as the Colonel unquestion- 
ably is, it has been a blessing to the city. Nor can I 
conceive how even the bitterest enemies of Colonel Nel- 
son can question his motives. 

Will Irwin, who knows about newspapers if anybody 
does, said to me: "The 'Star' is not only one of the 
greatest newspapers in the world, but it is a regular 
club. I know of no paper anywhere where the per- 
sonnel of the men is higher. I will give you a letter to 
Barton. He will introduce you around the office, and 
the office will do the rest." 

I found these prognostications true. Inside a few 
hours I felt as though I, too, had been a "Star" man. 
"Star" men took me to "dinner" — meaning what we 
in the East call "luncheon" ; took me to see the station, 
put me in touch with endless stories of all sorts — all 

306 



COLONEL NELSON'S "STAR" 

with the kindHest and most disinterested spirit. They 
told me so much that I could write half a dozen chapters 
on Kansas City. 

Take, for example, the story of the Convention Hall. 
It is a vast auditorium, taking up, as I recall it, a 
whole block. It was built for the Democratic National 
Convention in 1900, but burned down immediately after 
having been completed; whereupon Kansas City turned 
in, raised the money all over again, and in about ten 
weeks' time completely rebuilt it. There Bryan was 
nominated for the second time. Or, consider the story 
of the "Harvey System" of hotels and restaurants on the 
Santa Fe Road. The headquarters of this eating-house 
system is in Kansas City, and offers a fine field for a 
story all by itself, for it has been the biggest single influ- 
ence in civilizing hotel life and in raising gastronomic 
standards throughout the west. 

But these are only items by the way — two among the 
countless things that "Star" men told me of, or showed 
me. And, of course, the greatest thing they showed 
me was right in their own office: their friend, their 
"boss," that active volcano, seventy-three years old, 
who comes down daily to his desk, and whose en- 
thusiasm fires them all. 

Colonel Nelson is a "character." Even if he didn't 
own the "Star," even if he had not the mind he has, he 
would be a "character," if only by virtue of his appear- 
ance. I have called him a volcano; he is more like one 
than any other man I have ever met. He is even shaped 

307 



ABROAD AT HOME 



like one, being mountainous in his proportions, and also 
in the way he tapers upward from his vast waist to his 
snow-capped "peak." Furthermore, his face is lined, 
seamed, and furrowed in extraordinary suggestion of 
those strange, gnarled lava forms which adorn the 
slopes of Vesuvius. Even the voice which proceeds 
from the Colonel's "crater" is Vesuvian: hoarse, deep, 



rumbling. 



strong. 



When he speaks, great natural 



forces seem to stir, and you hope that no eruption may 
occur while you are near, lest the fire from the moun- 
tain descend upon you and destroy you. 

''Umph !" rumbled the volcano as it shook hands with 
my companion and me. "You 're from New York? 
New York is running the big gambling house and show 
house for the country. It does n't produce anything. 
It does n't take any more interest in where the money 
comes from than a gambler cares where you get thej 
money you put into his game. 

"Kansas is the greatest state in the Union. It 
thinks. It produces things. Among other things, it 
produces crazy people. It is a great thing to have a 
few crazy people around ! Roosevelt is crazy. Umph ! 
So were the men who started the Revolution to break 
away from England. 

"Most of the people in the United States don't thinkj 
They are indifferent and apathetic. They don't want 
to work. One of our 'Star' boys went to an agricultural 
college to see what was going on there. What did h« 
find out? Why, that instead of making farmers thej 

308 



COLONEL NELSON'S "STAR" 

were making professors. Yes. Pretty nearly the en- 
tire graduating class went there to learn to teach farm- 
ing. That 's not what we want. We want farmers." 

The Colonel's enemies have tried, on various occa- 
sions, to "get" him, but without distinguished success. 
The Colonel goes into a fight with joy. Once, when he 
was on the stand as a witness in a libel suit which had 
been brought against his paper, a copy of the editorial 
containing the alleged libel was handed to him by the 
attorney for the prosecution. 

"Colonel Nelson," said the attorney, menacingly, 
"did you write this?" 

"No, sir!" bristled the Colonel with apparent regret 
at the forced negation of his answer, "but I subscribe to 
every word of it !" 

Once the Colonel's enemies almost succeeded in put- 
ting him in jail. 

A "Star" reporter wrote a story illustrating the prac- 
tice of the Jackson County Circuit Court in refusing to 
permit a divorce case to be dismissed by either husband 
or wife until the lawyers in the case had received their 
fees. The "Star" contended that such practice, where 
the couple had made up their quarrel, made the court, 
in effect, a collection agency. Through a technical 
error the story, as printed, seemed to refer to the judge 
of one division of the court when it should have applied 
to another. The judge who was, through this error, 
apparently referred to, seized the opportunity to issue a 

309 



ABROAD AT HOME 

summons charging Colonel Nelson with contempt of 
court. 

Colonel Nelson, who had known nothing of the story 
until he read it in print, not only went to the front for 
his reporter, but caused the story to be reprinted, with 
the added statement that it was true and that he had 
been summonsed on account of it. 

When he appeared in court the judge demanded an 
apology. This the Colonel refused to give, but offered 
to prove the story true. The judge replied that the 
truth of the story had nothing to do with the case. He 
permitted no evidence upon that subject to be intro- 
duced, but, drawing from his pocket some typewritten 
sheets, proceeded to read from them a sentence, con- 
demning the Colonel to one day in jail. This sentence 
he then ordered the sheriff to execute. 

However, before the sheriff could do so, a lawyer, 
representing the Colonel, ran upstairs and secured from 
the Court of Appeals, in the same building, a writ of 
habeas corpus on the ground that the decision of the 
lower judge had been prepared before he heard the evi- 
dence. This the latter admitted. Thus the Colonel 
was saved from jail — somewhat, it is rumored, to his re- 
gret. Later the case was dismissed by the Supreme 
Court of Missouri. 

An attorney representing the gas company, against 
which the "Star" had been waging war, called on the 
Colonel one day to complain of injustices which he al- 

310 



COLONEL NELSON'S ''STAR'* 

leged the company was suffering at the hands of the 
paper. 

"Colonel Nelson," he said, "your young men are not 
being fair to the gas company." 

"Let me tell you," said the Colonel, "that if they were 
I'd fire them!" 

"Why, Colonel Nelson!" said the dismayed attorney. 
"Do you mean to say you don't want to be fair?" 

"Yes, sir!" said the Colonel. "When has your com- 
pany been fair to Kansas City? When you are fair my 
young men will be fair !" 

If there is one thing about the "Star" more amazing 
than another, it is perhaps the effect it can produce by 
mere negative action — that is, by ignoring its enemies 
instead of attacking them. In one case a man who had 
made most objectionable attacks on Colonel Nelson per- 
sonally, was treated to such a course of discipline, with 
the result, I was informed, that he was ultimately ruined. 

The "Star" did not assail him. It simply refused to 
accept advertising from him and declined to mention his 
name or to refer to his enterprises. 

When the victim of this singular reprisal was writh- 
ing under it, a prominent citizen called at Colonel Nel- 
son's office to plead with the Colonel to "let up." 

"Colonel," he protested, "you ought not to keep after 
this man. It is ruining his business." 

"Keep after him?" repeated the Colonel. "I'm not 
keeping after him. For me he does n't exist." 

311 



ABROAD AT HOME 

"That 's just the trouble," urged the mediator. 
"Now, Colonel, you 're getting to be an old man. 
Would n't you be happier when you lay down at night 
if you could think to yourself that there was n't a single 
man in Kansas City who was worse off because of any 
action on your part?" 

At that occurred a sudden eruption of the old volcano. 

"By God!" cried the Colonel. "I could n't sleep!" 



312 



CHAPTER XXV 
KEEPING A PROMISE 

The shades of night mere falling fast, 
As through a western landscape passed 
A car, zvhich bore, 'mid snow and ice. 
Two traz/lers taking this advice: 

Visit Excelsior Springs! 

HAVE you ever heard of the city of Excelsior 
Springs, Missouri? I never had until the let- 
ters began to come. The first one reached me 
in Detroit. It told me that Excelsior Springs desired to 
be "written up," and offered me, as an inducement to 
come there, the following arguments: paved streets, 
beautiful scenery, three modern, fire-proof hotels, 
flourishing lodges, live churches, fine saddle horses, an 
eighteen-hole golf course ("2d to none," the letter said) 
four distinct varieties of mineral water, and — Frank 
James. 

The mention of Frank James stirred poignant mem- 
ories of my youth: recollections of forbidden "nickel 
novels" dealing with the wild deeds alleged to have 
been committed by the James Boys, Frank and Jesse, 
and their "Gang." I used to keep these literary treas- 
ures concealed behind a dusty furnace pipe in the cellar 

313 



ABROAD AT HOME 

of the old house in Chicago. On rainy days I would 
steal down and get them, and, retiring to some out-of- 
the-way corner of the attic, would read and re-read 
them in a kind of ecstasy of horror — a horror which was 
enhanced by the eternal fear of being discovered with 
such trash in my possession. 

I had not thought of the James Boys in many years. 
But when I got that letter, and realized that Frank 
James was still alive, the old stories came flooding back. 
As with Maeterlinck and Hinky Dink, the James Boys 
seemed to me to be fictitious figures; beings too won- 
derful to be true. The idea of meeting one of them and 
talking with him seemed hardly less improbable than 
the idea of meeting Barbarossa, Captain Kidd, Dick 
Turpin, or Robin Hood. I began to wish to visit Ex- 
celsior Springs. 

Before I had a chance to answer the first letter others 
came. Mr. W. E. Davy, Chief Correspondent of the 
Brotherhood of American Yeomen, wrote that, "Excel- 
sior Springs is one of the most picturesque and inter- 
esting spots in that portion of the country." Ban B. 
Johnson, president of the American Baseball League, 
also wrote, declaring, 'T believe Excelsior Springs to 
be the greatest watering place on the American con- 
tinent." Then came letters from business men, Con- 
gressmen and Senators, until it began to seem to me that 
the entire world had dropped its work and taken up its 
pen to impress upon me the vital need of a visit to this 
little town. The letters came so thick that, from St. 

314 



KEEPING A PROMISE 

Louis, I telegraphed the Secretary of the Excelsior 
Springs Commercial Club to say that, if he would let up 
on me, I would agree to come. After that the letters 
stopped as though by magic. Until I reached Kansas 
City I heard no more about Excelsior Springs. There, 
however, a deputation called to remind me of my prom- 
ise, and a few days later the same deputation returned 
and escorted my companion and me to the interurban car, 
and bought our tickets, and checked our trunks, and 
put us in our seats, and sat beside us watchfully, like 
detectives taking prisoners to jail. For though I had 
promised we would come, it must not be forgotten that 
they were from Missouri. 

Excelsior Springs is a busy, pushing little town of 
about five thousand inhabitants, situated in Clay County, 
Missouri, about thirty miles from Kansas City. The 
whole place has been built up since 1880, on the strength 
of the mineral waters found there — and when you have 
tasted these waters you can understand it, for they are 
very strong indeed. But that is putting the thing 
bluntly. Listen, then, to the booklet issued by the Ex- 
celsior Springs Commercial Club: 

Even as 'truth is stranger than fiction,' so the secrets of Na- 
ture are even more wonderful than the things v^^rought by the 
hands of man. Just why it pleased the Creator of the Universe 
to install one of His laboratories here and infuse into its waters 
curative powers which surpass the genius and skill of all the phy- 
sicians in Christendom is a question which no one can answer. 
Like the stars, the flowers, and the ocean, it is merely one of the 

315 



ABROAD AT HOME 

great eternal verities with which we are surrounded. Whither 
and whence no man knows. 

Having paid this fitting compliment to the Creator, 
the pamphleteer proceeds to expatiate upon the joys of 
the place : 

There are cool, shaded parks and woodlands, where you can 
sit under the big, spreading trees which shut out the hot sum- 
mer's sun — where you can loll on blankets of thickly matted blue 
grass and read and sleep to your heart's content — far from the 
madding crowd and the world's fierce strife and turmoil. . . . 
Here the golf player will find one of the finest golf links his 
heart would desire. The fisherman will find limpid streams 
where the wary black bass lurks behind moss-covered rocks. . . . 
Here you and your wife can vie at tennis, bowling, horseback rid- 
ing, and a dozen other wholesome exercises, and when the shad- 
ows of the night have fallen there are orchestras which dispense 
sweet music and innumerable picture shows and other forms of 
entertainment which will while away the fleetings moments until 
bedtime. 

Though the writer of the above prose-poem chose to 
assume that the imaginary being to whom he addresses 
himself is a married man, the reader must not jump 
to the conclusion that Excelsior Springs is a resort for 
married couples only, that the married are obliged to 
run in pairs, or that those who have been joined in 
matrimony are, for any reason, in especial need of heal- 
ing waters. If unmarried persons are not so welcome 
at the Springs as married couples, that is only because 
a couple spends more money than an individual. The 
unmarried are cordially received. And I may add 

316 



KEEPING A PROMISE 

from personal observation, that the married man or 
woman who arrives alone can usually arrange to "vie 
at tennis, bowling, horseback riding, and a dozen other 
wholesome exercises" with the husband or the wife of 
some one else. In short. Excelsior Springs is like most 
other "resorts." But all this is by the way. The waters 
are the main thing. The paved streets, the parks, the 
golf links, even Frank James, sink into comparative in- 
significance compared with the natural beverages of 
the place. The Commercial Club desires that this be 
clearly understood, and seems, even, to resent the prox- 
imity of Frank James, as a rival attraction to the waters, 
as though under an impression that no human being 
could stomach both. Before I departed from the 
Springs some members of the Commercial Club became 
so alarmed at the interest I was showing in the former 
outlaw that they called upon me in a body and exacted 
from me a solemn promise that I should on no account 
neglect to write about the waters. I agreed, whereupon 
I was given full information regarding the waters by a 
gentleman bearing the appropriate name of Fish. 

Mr. Fish informed me that the waters of Excelsior 
Springs resemble, in their general effect, the waters of 
Homburg, the favorite watering place of the late King 
Edward — or, rather, I think he put it the other way 
round: that Homburg waters resembled those of Ex- 
celsior Springs. The famous Elizabethbrunnen of 
Homburg is like a combination of two waters found at 
the Missouri resort — a saline water and an iron water, 

317 



ABROAD AT HOME 

having, together, a laxative, alterative, and tonic ef- 
fect. Mr. Fish, who has made a study of waters, says 
that Excelsior Springs has the greatest variety of val- 
uable mineral waters to be found in this country, and 
that the town possesses two among the half dozen iron- 
manganese springs being used, commercially, in the en- 
tire world. Duplicates of these springs are to be found 
at Schwalbach and Pyrmont, in Germany; Spa, in Bel- 
gium, and St. Moritz, in Switzerland. The value of 
manganese when associated with iron is that it makes 
the iron more digestible. 

Another type of water found at the Springs is of a 
saline-sulphur variety, such as is found at Saratoga, 
Blue Lick (Ky.), Ems, and Baden-Baden. Still an- 
other type is the soda water similar to that of Manitou 
(Colo.), Vichy, and Carlsbad, while a fourth variety of 
water is the lithia. 

In 1 88 1 the present site of the town was occupied by 
farms, one of them that of Anthony Wyman, on whose 
land the original "Siloam" iron spring was discovered. 
This spring, the water of which left a yellow streak on 
the ground as it flowed away, had been known for years 
among the negro farm hands as the "old pizen spring," 
and it is said that when they were threshing wheat in 
the fields, and became thirsty, none of them dared drink 
from it. 

Rev. Dr. Flack, a resident of the neighborhood, hav- 
ing heard about the spring, took a sample of the water 
and sent it to be analyzed — as my informant put it, 

318 



KEEPING A PROMISE 

"to find out what was the matter with it." The analysis 
showed the reason for the yellow streak, and informed 
Dr. Flack of the spring's value. 

From that time on people began to drive to the Springs 
in the stagecoaches that passed through the region. 
First there were camps, but in 1882 a few houses were 
built and the town was incorporated. In 1888 the Chi- 
cago, Milwaukee & St. Paul Railroad began to operate 
a line through Excelsior Springs, and in 1894 the Wa- 
bash connected with the Springs by constructing a spur 
line. The Milwaukee & St. Paul tracks pass at a dis- 
tance of about one mile from the town, and this fact 
finally caused the late Sam F. Scott to build a dummy line 
to the station. 

I was told that Mr. Scott had handsome passes en- 
graved, and that he sent these to the presidents of all 
the leading railroad companies of the country, request- 
ing an exchange of courtesies. According to this story, 
Mr. Scott received a reply from Alexander Cassatt, 
then president of the Pennsylvania system, saying that 
he was unable to find Mr. Scott's road in the Railroad 
Directory, and asking for further information. To this 
letter, it is said, Mr. Scott replied: "My road is not so 
long as yours, but it is just as wide." Perhaps I should 
add that, later, I heard the same story told of the presi- 
dent of a small Colorado line, and that still later I heard 
it in connection with a little road in California. It may 
be an old story, but it was new to me, and I hereby fasten 
it upon the town where I first heard it. 

319 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Excelsior Springs is the headquarters of the Bill 
Club, which has come in for humorous mention, from 
time to time, in newspapers throughout the land. The 
Bill Club is a national organization, the sole require- 
ment for membership having originally consisted in the 
possession of the cognomen "William" and the payment 
of a dollar bill. Bill Sisk of Excelsior Springs is presi- 
dent of the Bill Club, Bill Hyder is secretary, and Bill 
Flack treasurer. By an amendment of the Bill Club 
constitution, ''any lady who has been christened Willie, 
Wilena, Wilhelmine, or Williamette, may also join the 
Bill Club." The pass word of the organization is 
''Hello, Bill," and among the honorary members are ex- 
President Bill Taft, Secretary of State Bill Bryan, Sena- 
tors Bill Warner and Bill Stone of Missouri, Bill Hearst, 
Colonel Bill Nelson, publisher of the Kansas City "Star," 
and Bill Bill, a hat manufacturer, of Hartford, Conn. 



The head waiter at our hotel was a beaming negro. 
As my companion and I came down to breakfast on our 
first morning there, he met us at the door, led us across 
the dining room, drew out our chairs, and, as we sat 
down, inquired, pleasantly: 

"Well, gentamen, how did you enjoy yo' sleep?" 
We both assured him that we had slept well. - 
"Yes, suh; yes, suh," he replied. "That 's the way it 
most gen'ally is down here. People either sleeps well or 
they don't." 

320 



KEEPING A PROMISE 

After breakfast we were taken in a motor to the James 
farm, nine miles distant from the town. Never have 
I seen more charming landscapes than those we passed 
upon this drive. An Englishman at Excelsior Springs 
told me that the landscapes reminded him of home, but 
to me they were not English, for they had none of that 
finished, gardenlike formality which one associates with 
the scenery of England. The country in that part of 
Missouri is hilly, and spring was just commencing when 
we were there, touching the feathery tips of the trees 
with a color so faint that it seemed like a light green 
mist. It was a warm, sunny day, and the breeze sweet 
with the smell of growing things. There was no haze, 
the air was clear, yet by some subtle quality in the light, 
colors, which elsewhere might have looked raw, were 
strangely softened and made to blend with one another. 
Blatant red barns, green houses, and the bright blue 
overalls worn by farm hands in the fields, did not jump 
out of the picture, but melted into it harmoniously, keep- 
ing us in a constant state of amazement and delight. 

"If you think it 's pretty now," our guardians told us, 
"you ought to see it in the summer when the trees are at 
their best." 

Of course such landscapes must be fine in summer, 
but the beauty of summer is an obvious kind of beauty, 
like that of some splendid opulent woman in a rich 
evening gown. Summer seems to me to be a little bit 
too sure of her beauty, a little too well aware of its 
completeness. The beauty of very early spring is dif- 

321 



ABROAD AT HOME 

ferent; there is something frail about it; something 
timid and faltering, which makes me think of a young 
girl, delicate and sweet, who, knowing that she has 
not reached maturity, looks forward to her womanhood 
and remains unconscious of her present virgin loveli- 
ness. No, I am sure that I should never love that Mis- 
souri landscape as I loved it in the early spring, and 
I am sure that such a painter as W. Elmer Schofield 
would have loved it best as I saw it, and that Edward 
Redfield or Ernest Lawson would prefer to paint it in 
that aspect than in any other which it could assume. I 
should like to see them paint it, and I should also like to 
see their paintings shown to Kansas and Missouri. 

What would Kansas and Missouri make of them? 
Very little, I fear. For (with the exception of St. 
Louis) those two States seem to be devoid of all feel- 
ing for art. I doubt that there is a public art gallery 
in the whole State of Kansas, or a private collection of 
paintings worth speaking of. As for western Missouri, 
I could learn of no paintings there, save some full-sized 
copies, in oil, of works of old masters, which were pre- 
sented to Kansas City by Colonel Nelson. These copies 
are exceptionally fine. They might form the nucleus 
for a municipal gallery of art — a much better nucleus 
than would be formed by one or two actual works of 
old masters — but Kansas City has n't "gotten around to 
art," as yet, apparently. The paintings are housed in 
the second story of a library building, and several peo- 
ple to whom I spoke had never heard of them. 

322 



CHAPTER XXVI 
THE TAME LION 

THE James farm occupies a pretty bit of rolling 
land, at one corner of which, near the road, 
Frank James has built himself a neat, substan- 
tial frame house. 

Before the house is a large gate, bearing a sign as 
follows : 

James Farms 

Home of the James' 

Jesse and Frank 

Admission 50c. 

Kodaks Bared 

That word "bared" is not bad proofreading; it was 
spelled like that on the sign. 

As we moved in the direction of the house a tall, 
slender old man with a large hooked nose and a white 
beard and mustache walked toward us. He was dressed 
in an exceedingly neat suit and wore a large black felt 
hat of the type common throughout Missouri. Coming 
up, he greeted our escort cordially, after which we were 
introduced. It was Frank James. 

The former outlaw is a shrewd-looking, well preserved 
man, whose carriage, despite his seventy-one years, is 
notably erect. He looks more like a prosperous farmer 

323 



ABROAD AT HOME 

or the president of a rural bank than Hke a bandit. In 
his manner there is a strong note of the showman. It 
is not at all objectionable, but it is there, in the same 
way that it is there in Buffalo Bill. Frank James is an 
interesting figure ; on meeting him you see, at once, that 
he knows he is an interesting figure and that he trades 
upon the fact. He is clearly an intelligent man, but 
he has been looked at and listened to for so many years, 
as a kind of curiosity, that he has the air of going 
through his tricks for one — of getting off a line of prac- 
tised patter. It is pretty good patter, as patter goes, 
inclining to quotation, epigram, and homely philosophy, 
delivered in an assured "platform manner." 

It may be well here to remind the reader of the history 
of the James Gang. 

The father and mother of the "boys" came from Ken- 
tucky to Missouri. The father was a Baptist minister 
and a slaveholder. He died before the war, and his 
widow married a man named Samuels, by whom she 
<^ad several children. 

From the year 1856 Missouri, which was a slave 
state, warred with Kansas, which was a free state, 
and there was much barbarity along the border. 
The "Jayhawkers," or Kansas guerrillas, would make 
forays into Missouri, stealing cattle, burning houses, 
and committing all manner of depredations ; and lawless 
gangs of Missourians would retaliate, in kind, on Kan- 
sas. Among the most appalling cutthroats on the Mis- 
souri side was a man named Quantrell, head of the 

324 



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h'/.' 













? 



I 



THE TAME LION 

Quantrell gang, a body of guerrillas which sometimes 
numbered upward of a thousand men. The James boys 
were members of this gang, Frank James joining at the 
opening of the Civil War, and Jesse two years later, at 
the age of sixteen. In speaking of joining Quantrell, 
Frank James spoke of "going into the army." Quan- 
trell was, however, a mere border ruffian and was dis- 
owned by the Confederate army. 

According to Frank James, Quantrell, who was born 
in Canal Dover, Ohio, went west, with his brother, to 
settle. In Kansas they were set upon by "J^y^^s-wkers" 
and "Redlegs," with the result that Quantrell's brother 
was killed and that Quantrell himself was wounded 
and left for dead. He was, however, nursed to life by 
a Nez Perce Indian. When he recovered he became 
determined to have revenge upon the Kansans. To that 
end, he affected to be in sympathy with them, and joined 
some of their marauding bands. When he had estab- 
lished himself in their confidence he used to get himself 
sent out on scouting expeditions with one or two other 
men, and it was his amiable custom, upon such occa- 
sions, to kill his companions and return with a story 
of an attack by the enemy in which the others had met 
death. At last, when he had played this trick so often 
that he feared detection, he determined to get himself 
clear of his fellows. A plan had been matured for an 
attack upon the house of a rich slaveholder. Quantrell 
went to the house in advance, betrayed the plan, and 
arranged to join forces with the defenders. This 

325 



ABROAD AT HOME 

resulted in the death of his seven or eight com- 
panions. At about this time the war came on, and 
Quantrell became a famous guerrilla leader, falling on 
detached bodies of Northern troops and massacring 
them, and even attacking towns — one of his worst of- 
fenses having been the massacre of most of the male 
inhabitants of Lawrence, Kas. He gave as the reason 
for his atrocities his desire for revenge for the death 
of his brother, and also used to allege that he was a 
Southerner, though that was not true. 

I asked Frank James how he came to join Quantrell, 
when the war broke out, instead of enlisting in the reg- 
ular army. 

"We knew he was not a very fine character," he ex- 
plained, "but we were like the followers of Villa or 
Huerta: we wanted to destroy the folks that wanted 
to destroy us, and we would follow any man that would 
show us how to do it. Besides, I was young then. 
When a man is young his blood is hot ; there 's a million 
things he '11 do then that he won't do when he 's older. 
There 's a story about a man at a banquet. He was 
offered champagne to drink, but he said : 'I want quick 
action. I '11 take Bourbon whisky.' That was the way 
I felt. That 's why I joined Quantrell : to get quick 
action. And I got it, too. Jesse and I were with Quan- 
trell until he was killed in Kentucky." 

John Samuels, a half brother of the James boys, told 
me the story of how Jesse James came to join Quan- 
trell. 

326 



THE TAME LION 

"Jesse was out plowing in a field," he said, ''when some 
Northern soldiers came to the place to look for Frank. 
Jesse was only sixteen years old. They beat him up. 
Then they went to the house and asked where Frank 
was. Mother and father did n't know, but the soldiers 
would n't believe them. They took father out and hung 
him by the neck to a tree. After a while they took him 
down and gave him another chance to tell. Of course 
he could n't. So they hung him up again. They did 
that three times. Then they took him back to the house 
and told my mother they were going to shoot him. 
She begged them not to do it, but they took him off in 
the woods and fired off their guns so she 'd hear, and 
think they 'd done it. But they did n't shoot him. They 
just took him over to another town and put him in jail. 
My mother did n't know until the next day that he 
had n't been shot, because the soldiers ordered her to re- 
main in the house if she did n't want to get shot, too. 

"That was too much for Jesse. He said: 'Maw, 
I can't stand it any longer; I'm going to join Quan- 
trell.' And he did.'' 

After the war the wilder element from the disbanded 
armies and guerrilla gangs caused continued trouble. 
Crime ran rampant along the border between Kansas 
and Missouri. And for many crimes committed in the 
neighborhood in which they lived, the James boys, who 
were known to be wild, were blamed. 

"Mother always said," declared Mr. Samuels, "that 
Frank and Jesse wanted to settle down after the war, 

327 



ABROAD AT HOME 

but that the neighbors would n't let them. Everything 
that went wrong around this region was always charged 
to them, until, finally, they were driven to outlawry." 

"How much truth is there in the different stories of 
bank robberies and train robberies committed by them ?" 
I asked. 

*'I don't know," he said. "Of course they did a lot 
of things. But we never knew. They never said 
anything. They 'd just come riding home, every now 
and then, and stop for a while, and then go riding away 
again. We never knew where they came from or where 
they went." 

It has been alleged that even after a reward of $10,000 
had been offered for either of the Jameses, dead or alive, 
the neighbors shielded them when it was known that 
they were at home. I spoke about that to an old man 
who lived on a nearby farm. 

"Yes," he said, "that 's true. Once when the Pinker- 
tons were hunting them I met Frank and some members 
of the gang riding along the road, not far from here. I 
could have told, but I did n't want to. I was n't looking 
for any trouble with the James Gang. Suppose they 
had caught one or two of them ? There 'd be others left 
to get even with me, and I had my family to think of. 
That is the way lots of the neighbors felt about it. They 
were afraid to tell." 

I spoke to Frank James about the old "nickel novels." 

"Yes," he said, "some fellows printed a lot of stuff. 
I 'd have stopped it, maybe, if I 'd had as much money as 

328 



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We strolled in the direction of the old house, that house of tragedy in which 
the family lived in the troublous times. ... It was there that the Pinkertons 
threw the bomb 



I 



THE TAME LION 

Rockefeller. But what could I do? I tell you those 
yellow-backed books have done a lot of harm to the youth 
of this land — those and the moving pictures, showing 
robberies. Such things demoralize youth. If I had the 
job of censoring the moving pictures, they 'd say I was a 
reg'lar Robespierre !" 

''How about some of the old stories of robberies 
in which you were supposed to have taken part?" I 
asked. 

*T neither affirm nor deny," Frank James answered, 
with the glibness of long custom. 'Tf I admitted that 
these stories were true, people would say : 'There is the 
greatest scoundrel unhung !' and if I denied 'em, they 'd 
say : 'There 's the greatest liar on earth !' So I just say 
nothing." 

According to John Samuels, Frank James and Cole 
Younger were generally acknowledged to be the brains 
of the James Gang. "It was claimed," he said, "that 
Frank planned and Jesse executed. Frank was certainly 
the cool man of the two, and Jesse was a little bit ex- 
citable. He had the name of being the quickest man in 
the world with a gun. Sometimes when he was home 
for a visit, when I was a boy, he 'd be sitting there in the 
house, and there 'd come some little noise. Then he 'd 
whip out his pistol so quick you could n't see the motion 
of his hand." 

As we conversed we strolled in the direction of the old 
house, that house of tragedy in which the family lived 
in the troublous times. On the way we passed Frank 

329 



ABROAD AT HOME 

James's chicken coop, and I noticed that on it had been 
painted the legend: "Bull Moose— T. R." 

"The wing, at the back, is the old part of the house," 
James explained. "It was there that the Pinkertons 
threw the bomb." 

I asked about the bomb throwing and heard the story 
from John Samuels, who was there when it occurred. 

"I was a child of thirteen then," he said, "and I was 
the only one in the room who was n't killed or crippled. 
It happened at night. We had suspected for a long time 
that a man named Laird, who was working as a farm 
hand for a neighbor of ours named Askew on that farm 
over there" — he indicated a farmhouse on a near-by 
hill — "was a Pinkerton man, and that he was there to 
watch for Frank and Jesse. Well, one night he must 
have decided they were at home, for the house was sur- 
rounded while we were asleep. A lot of torches were 
put around in the yard to give light. Then the house 
was set on fire in seven places and a bomb was thrown 
in through this window." He pointed to a window in 
the side of the old log wing. "It was about midnight. 
My mother and little brother and I were in the room. 
Mother kicked the bomb into the fireplace before it went 
off. The fuse was sputtering. Maybe she even 
thought of throwing the thing out of the window again. 
Anyhow, when it exploded it blew ofif her forearm and 
killed my little brother." 

"Come in the house," invited Frank James. "We 've 
got a piece of the bomb in there." 

330 



THE TAME LION 

We entered the old cabin. In the fireplace marks of 
the explosion are still visible. The piece of the bomb 
which they preserve is a bowl-shaped bit of iron, about 
the size of a bread-and-butter plate. 

''What was their idea in throwing the bomb?" I asked. 

"As near as we know," replied Frank James, "the 
Pinkertons figured that Jesse and I were sleeping in the 
front part of the house. You see, there 's a little porch 
running back from the main house to the door of the old 
cabin. They must have figured that when the bomb 
went off we would run out on the porch to see what was 
the matter. Then they were going to bag us." 

"Well, did you run out?" 

"Evidently not," said Frank James. 

"Were you there?" I asked. 

"Some think we were and some think not," he said. 

An old man who had been constable of the township 
at the time the James boys were on the warpath had 
come up and joined us. 

"How about Askew?" I suggested. "I should have 
thought he would have been afraid to harbor a Pinkerton 
man." 

The old man nodded. "You 'd of thought so, 
would n't you ?" he agreed. "Askew was shot dead 
three months after the bomb throwing. He was carry- 
ing a pail of milk from the stable to the house when he 
got three bullets in the face." 

"Who killed him?" I asked. 

The old constable allowed his eyes to drift rumina- 

331 



ABROAD AT HOME 

tively over the neighboring hiUsides before replying. 
Frank James and his half brother, who were standing 
by, also heard my question, and they, too, became inter- 
ested in the surrounding scenery. 

''Well-1," said the old constable at last, "that 's always 
been a question." 

Mr. Samuels told me details concerning the death of 
Jesse James. 

"Things were getting pretty hot for the boys," he 
said. "Big rewards had been offered for them. Frank 
was in hiding down South, and Jesse was married and 
living under an assumed name in a little house he had 
rented in St. Joe, Mo. That was in 1882. There 
had been some hints of trouble in the gang. Dick 
Little, one of the boys, had gotten in with the authori- 
ties, and it had been rumored that he had won the Ford 
boys over, too. Jesse had heard that report, but he had 
confidence in Charlie Ford. Bob Ford he did n't trust 
so much. Well, Charlie and Bob Ford came to St. Joe 
to see Jesse and his wife. They were sitting around the 
house one day, and Jesse's wife wanted him to dust a 
picture for her. He was always a great hand to help 
his wife. He moved a chair over imder the picture, 
and before getting up on it to dust, he took his belt and 
pistols off and threw them on the bed. Then he got up 
on the chair. While he was standing there Bob Ford 
shot him in the back. 

"Well, Bob died a violent death a while after that. 




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THE TAME UON 

He was shot by a man named Kelly in a saloon in Creede, 
Colo. And Charlie Ford brooded over the killing of 
Jesse and committed suicide about a year later. The 
three Younger boys, who were members of the gang, 
too, were captured a while after, near Northfield, Minn., 
where they had tried to rob a bank. They were all sent 
up for life. Bob Younger died in the penitentiary at 
Stillwater, but Cole and Jim were paroled and not al- 
lowed to leave the State. Jim fell in love with a woman, 
but being an ex-convict, he could n't get a license to 
marry her. That broke his heart and he committed sui- 
cide. Cole finally got a full pardon and is now living 
in Jackson County, Missouri. He and Frank are the 
only two members of the Gang who are left and the only 
two that did n't die either in the penitentiary or by vio- 
lence. Frank was in hiding for years with a big price 
on his head. At last he gave himself up, stood trial, and 
was acquitted." 

Adherents of Bob Ford told a different story of the 
motives back of the killing of Jesse James. They con- 
tend that Jesse James thought Ford had been "telling 
things" and ought to be put out of the way, and that in 
killing Jesse, Ford practically saved his own life. 

Whatever may be the truth, it is generally agreed that 
the action of Jesse James in taking off his guns and 
turning his back on the Ford boys was unprecedented. 
He had never before been known to remove his weapons. 
Some people think he did it as a piece of bravado. 
Others say he did it to show the Ford boys that he trusted 

333 



ABROAD AT HOME 

them. But whatever the occasion for the action it gave 
Bob Ford his chance — a chance which, it is thought, he 
would not have dared take when Jesse James was armed. 

During the course of our visit Frank James "lec- 
tured," more or less constantly, touching on a variety of 
subjects, including the Mexican situation and woman 
suffrage. 

"The women ought to have the vote," he affirmed. 
"Look what we owe to the women. A man gets 75 per 
cent, of what goodness there is in him from his mother, 
and he owes at least 40 per cent, of all he makes to his 
wife. Yes, some men owe more than that. Some of 
'em owe 100 per cent, to their wives." 

Ethics and morality seem to be favorite topics with the 
old man, and he makes free with quotations from the 
Bible and from Shakespeare in substantiation of his 
opinions. 

"City people," I heard him say to some other visitors 
who came while we were there, "think that we folks who 
live on farms have n't got no sense. Well, we may not 
know much, but what we do know we know darn well. 
We farmers feed all these smart folks in the cities, so 
they ought to give us credit for knowing something." 

He can be dry and waggish as he shows himself off to 
those who come and pay their fifty cents. It was amus- 
ing to watch him and listen to him. Sometimes he 
sounded like an old parson, but his air of piety sat upon 
him grotesquely as one reflected on his earlier career. 

334 






THE TAME LION 

A prelate with his hat cocked rakishly over one ear could 
have seemed hardly more incongruous. 

At some of his virtuous platitudes it was hard not to 
smile. All the time I was there I kept thinking how like 
he was to some character of Gilbert's. All that is needed 
to make Frank James complete is some lyrics and some 
music by Sir Arthur Sullivan. 

There are almost as many stories of the James Boys 
and their gang to be heard in Excelsior Springs as there 
are houses in the town. But as Frank James will not 
commit himself, it is next to impossible to verify them. 
However, I shall give a sample. 

I was told that Frank and Jesse James were riding 
along a country road with another member of the gang, 
and that, coming to a farmhouse shortly after noon, they 
stopped and asked the woman living there if she could 
give them "dinner" — as the midday meal is called in 
Kansas and Missouri. 

The woman said she could. They dismounted and 
entered. Then, as they sat in the kitchen watching 
her making the meal ready, Jesse noticed that tears kept 
coming to her eyes. Finally he asked her if anything 
was wrong. At that she broke down completely, in- 
forming him that she was a widow, that her farm was 
mortgaged for several hundred dollars, and that the 
man who held the mortgage was coming out that after- 
noon to collect. She had not the money to pay him and 
expected to lose her property. 

335 



ABROAD AT HOME 

"That 's nothing to cry about," said Jesse. "Here 's 
the money." 

To the woman, who had not the least idea who the 
men were, their visit must have seemed Hke one from 
angels. She took the money, thanking them profusely, 
and, after having fed them well, saw them ride away. 

Later in the day, when the holder of the mortgage ap- 
peared upon the scene, fully expecting to foreclose, he 
was surprised at receiving payment in full. He re- 
ceipted, mounted his horse, and set out on his return to 
town. But on the way back a strange thing befell him. 
He was held up and robbed by three mysterious masked 
men. 



I 



336 



CHAPTER XXVII 
KANSAS JOURNALISM 

EVERYTHING I had ever heard of Kansas, 
every one I had ever met from Kansas, every- 
thing I had ever imagined about Kansas, made 
me anxious to invade that State. With the exception 
of Cahfornia, there was no State about which I felt such 
a consuming curiosity. Kansas is, and always has been, 
a State of freaks and wonders, of strange contrasts, of 
individualities strong and sometimes weird, of ideas and 
ideals, and of apocryphal occurrences. 

Just think what Kansas has been, and has had, and 
is! Think of the border warfare over slavery which 
began as early as 1855; of settlers, traveling out to 
"bleeding Kansas" overland, from New England, merely 
to add their abolition votes; of early struggles with the 
soil, and of the final triumph. Kansas is to-day the 
first wheat State, the fourth State in the value of its 
assessed property (New York, Pennsylvania, and Mas- 
sachusetts only outranking it), and the only State in the 
Union which is absolutely free from debt. It has a 
more American population, greater wealth and fewer 
mortgages per capita, more women running for office, 
more religious conservatism, more political radicalism, 

ZZ7 



ABROAD AT HOME 

more students in higher educational institutions in pro- 
portion to its population, more homogeneity, more indi- 
vidualism, and more nasal voices than any other State. 
As Colonel Nelson said to me: "All these new ideas 
they are getting everywhere else are old ideas in Kan- 
sas." And why should n't that be true, since Kansas is 
the State of Sockless Jerry Simpson, William Allen 
White, Ed Howe, Walt Mason, Stubbs, Funston, Henry 
Allen, Victor Murdock, and Harry Kemp; the State of 
Susan B. Anthony, Carrie Nation, and Mary Ellen Lease 
— the same sweet Mary Ellen who remarked that "Kan- 
sas ought to raise less corn and more hell !" 

Kansas used to believe in Populism and free silver. 
It now believes in hot summers and a hot hereafter. 
It is a prohibition State in which prohibition actually 
works; a State like nothing so much as some scriptural 
kingdom — a land of floods, droughts, cyclones, and 
enormous crops; of prophets and of plagues. And in 
the last two items it has sometimes seemed to actually 
outdo the Bible by combining plague and prophet in a 
single individual: for instance, Carrie Nation, or again, 
Harry Kemp, "the tramp poet of Kansas," who is by 
way of being a kind of Carrie Nation of convention. 
Only last year Kansas performed one of her biblical 
feats, when she managed, somehow, to cause the water, 
in the deep well supplying the town of Girard, to turn 
hot. But that is nothing to what she has done. Do 
you remember the plague of grasshoppers? Not in the 
whole Bible is there to be found a more perfect pesti- 

338 



KANSAS JOURNALISM 

lence than that one, which occurred in Kansas in 1872. 
One day a cloud appeared before the sun. It came 
nearer and nearer and grew into a strange, glistening 
thing. At midday it was dark as night. Then, from 
the air, the grasshoppers commenced to come, like a 
heavy rain. They soon covered the ground. Railroad 
trains were stopped by them. They attacked the crops, 
which were just ready to be harvested, eating every green 
thing, and even getting at the roots. Then, on the sec- 
ond day, they all arose, making a great cloud, as before, 
and turning the day black again. Nor can any man say 
whence they came or whither they departed. 

Among the homely philosophers developed through 
Kansas journalism several are widely known, most cel- 
ebrated among them all being Ed Howe of the Atchison 
"Globe," William Allen White of the Emporia "Ga- 
zette," and Walt Mason of the same paper. 

Howe is sixty years of age. He was owner and edi- 
tor of the "Globe" for more than thirty years, but four 
years ago, when his paper gave him a net income of 
sixty dollars per day, he turned it over to his son and 
retired to his country place, "Potato Hill," whence he 
issues occasional manifestos. 

Some of Howe's characteristic paragraphs from the 
"Globe" have been collected and published in book form, 
under the title, "Country Town Sayings." Here are a 
few examples of his homely humor and philosophy: 

So many things go wrong that we are tired of becom- 
ing indignant. 

339 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Watch the flies on cold mornings ; that is the way you will 
feel and act when you are old. 

There is nothing so well known as that we should not ex- 
pect something for nothing, but we all do and call it hope. 

When half the men become fond of doing a thing, the other 
half prohibit it by law. 

Sometimes I think that I have nothing to be thankful for, 
but when I remember that I am not a woman I am content. 
Any one who is compelled to kiss a man and pretend to like it 
is entitled to sympathy. 

Somehow every one hates to see an unusually pretty girl 
get married. It is like taking a bite out of a very fine-look- 
ing peach. 

What people say behind your back is your standing in the 
community in which you live. 

A really busy person never knows how much he weighs. 

Walt Mason is another Kansas philosopher-humorist. 
Recently he published in "Collier's Weekly" an article 
describing life, particularly with regard to prohibition 
and its effects, in his "hum town," Emporia. 

Emporia is probably as well known as any town of 
its size in the land. It has, as Mason puts it, "ten thou- 
sand people, including William Allen White." Includ- 
ing Walt Mason, then, it must have about eleven thou- 
sand. Mason's article told how Stubbs, on becoming 
Governor of Kansas, enforced the prohibition laws, and 
of the fine effect of actual prohibition in Emporia. "No 
town in the world," he declares, "wears a tighter lid. 
There is no drunkenness because there is nothing to 
drink stiffer than pink lemonade. You will see a uni- 
corn as soon as you will see a drunken man in the streets 

340 



KANSAS JOURNALISM 

of the town. Emporia has reared a generation of young 
men who don't know what alcohol tastes like, who have 
never seen the inside of a saloon. Many of them never 
saw the outside of one. They go forth into the world 
to seek their fortunes without the handicap of an ac- 
quired thirst. All Emporia's future generations of 
young men will be similarly clean, for the town knows 
that a tight lid is the greatest possible blessing and no- 
body will ever dare attempt to pry it loose." 

Having spent a year in the prohibition State of Maine, 
I was skeptical as to the feasibility of a practical pro- 
hibition. Prohibition in Maine, when I was there, was 
simply a joke — and a bad joke at that, for it involved 
bad liquor. Every man in the State who wanted drink 
knew where to get it, so long as he was satisfied with 
poor beer, or whisky of about the quality of spar varnish. 
Never have I seen more drunkenness than in that State. 
The slight added difficulty of getting drink only made 
men want it more, and it seemed to me that, when they 
got it, they drank more at a sitting than they would have, 
had liquor been more generally accessible. 

In Kansas it is different. There the law is enforced. 
Blind pigs hardly exist, and bootleggers are rare birds 
who, if they persist in bootlegging, are rapidly converted 
into jailbirds. The New York "Tribune" printed, re- 
cently, a letter stating that prohibition is a signal failure 
in Kansas,, that there is more drinking there than ever 
before, and that "under the seats of all the automobiles 
in Kansas there is a good-sized canteen." Whether 

341 



ABROAD AT HOME 

there is more drinking in Kansas than ever before, I 
cannot say. I do know, however, both from personal 
observation and from rehable testimony, that there is 
practically no drinking in the portions of the State I 
visited. As I am not a prohibitionist, this statement 
is nonpartizan. But I may add, after having seen the 
results of prohibition in Kansas, I look upon it with 
more favor. Indeed, I am a partial convert; that is, 
I believe in it for you. And whatever are your views 
on prohibition, I think you will admit that it is a pretty 
temperate State in which a girl can grow to womanhood 
and say what one Kansas girl said to me : that she never 
saw a drunken man until she moved away from Kansas. 

Three religious manifestations occurred while I was 
in Kansas. A negro preacher came out with a plat- 
form declaring definitely in favor of a *'hot hell," an- 
other preacher affirmed that he had the answer to the 
"six riddles of the universe," and William Allen White 
came out with the news that he had "got religion." 

Now, if William Allen White of the Emporia "Ga- 
zette" really has done that, a number of consequences 
are likely to occur. For one thing, a good many Amer- 
icans who follow, with interest, Mr. White's opinions, 
are likely also to follow him in this; and if they fail to 
do so voluntarily, they are likely to get religion stuffed 
right down their throats. If White decides that it is 
good for them, they '11 get it, never fear ! For White 's 
the kind of man who gives us what is good for us, even 

342 



KANSAS JOURNALISM 

if it kills us. Another probable result of White's com- 
ing out in the ''Gazette" in favor of religion would be 
the simultaneous appearance, in the ''Gazette," of anti- 
religious propaganda by Walt Mason. That is the way 
the "Gazette" is run. White is the proprietor and has 
his say as editor, but Walt Mason, who is associated 
with him on the "Gazette," also has his say, and his say 
is far from being dictated by the publisher. White, 
for instance, favors woman suffrage; Mason does not. 
White is a progressive; Mason is a standpatter. White 
believes in the commission form of government, which 
Emporia has ; Mason does not. Mason believes in White 
for Governor of Kansas, whereas White, himself, pro- 
tests passionately that the "Gazette" is against "that 
man White." 

Says a "Gazette" editorial, apropos of a movement to 
nominate White on the Progressive ticket: 

We are onto that man White. Perhaps he pays his 
debts. He may be kind to his family. But he is not the man 
to run for Governor. And if he is a candidate for Gov- 
ernor or for any other office, we propose to tell the 
truth about him — how he robbed the county with a padded 
printing bill, how he offered to trade off his support to a 
Congressman for a Government building, how he blackmailed 
good citizens and has run a bulldozing, disreputable news- 
paper in this town for twenty years, and has grafted off busi- 
ness men and sold fake mining stock and advocated anarchy 
and assassinations. 

These are but a few preliminary things that occur to us 
as the moment passes. We shall speak plainly hereafter. 
A word to the wise gathers no moss. 

343 



ABROAD AT HOME 

That is the way they run the Emporia "Gazette." It 
is a kind of forum in which White and Mason air their 
different points of view, for, as Mason said to me: 
"The only pubHc question on which White and I agree 
is the infalhbiHty of the groundhog as a weather 
prophet." 

White and Colonel Nelson of the Kansas City "Star" 
are great friends and great admirers of each other. One 
day they were talking together about politics. 

"I hear," said Colonel Nelson, "that Shannon (Shan- 
non is the Democratic boss of Kansas City) says he 
wants to live long enough to go to the State Legislature 
and get a law passed making it only a misdemeanor to 
kill an editor." 

"Colonel," replied White, "I think such a law would 
be too drastic. I think editors should be protected during 
the mating season and while caring for their young. 
And, furthermore, I think no man should be allowed to 
kill more editors at any time than he and his family can 
eat." 



344 



CHAPTER XXVIII 
A COLLEGE TOWN 

IT was about one o'clock in the afternoon when my 
companion and I aUghted from the train in Law- 
rence, Kas., the city in which the Quantrell mas- 
sacre occurred, as mentioned in a preceding chapter, 
and the seat of the University of Kansas. 

An automobile hack, the gasoline equivalent of the 
dilapidated horse-drawn station hack of earlier times, 
was standing beside the platform. We consulted the 
driver about luncheon. 

"You kin get just as good eating at the lunch room 
over by the other station," he said, "as you kin at the 
hotel, and 't won't cost you so much. They charge fifty 
cents for dinner at the Eldridge, and the lunch room 's 
only a quarter. You kin get anything you want to eat 
there — ham and eggs, potatoes, all such as that." 

Somehow we were suspicious of the lunch room, but 
as we had to leave our bags at the other station, we told 
him we would look it over, got in, and drove across the 
town. The lunch room proved to be a one-story wooden 
structure, painted yellow, and supporting one of those 
"false fronts," representing a second story, which one 
sees so often in little western towns, and which of all 
architectural follies is the worst, since It deceives no one, 

345 



ABROAD AT HOME 

makes only for ugliness, and is a sheer waste of labor 
and material. 

We did not even alight at the lunch room, but, despite 
indications of hurt feelings on the part of our charioteer, 
insisted on proceeding to the Eldridge House and lunch- 
ing there, cost what it might. 

The Eldridge House stands on a corner of the wide 
avenue known as Massachusetts, the principal street, 
which, like the town itself, indicates, in its name, a New 
England origin. Lawrence was named for Amos Law- 
rence, the Massachusetts abolitionist, who, though he 
never visited Kansas, gave the first ten thousand dollars 
toward the establishment of the university. 

Alighting before the hotel, I noticed a building, diag- 
onally opposite, bearing the sign, Bowersock Theater. 
Billboards before the theater announced that Gaskell 
& McVitty (Inc.) would present there a dramatization 
of Harold Bell Wright's "Shepherd of the Hills." As 
I had never seen a dramatization of a work by Amer- 
ica's best-selling author, nor yet a production by Messrs. 
Gaskell & McVitty (Inc.), it seemed to me that h^re was 
an opportunity to Improve, as at one great bound, my 
knowledge of the theater. One of the keenest disap- 
pointments of my trip was the discovery that this play 
was not due in Lawrence for some days, as I would even 
have stopped a night in the Eldridge House, if necessary, 
to have attended a performance — especially a perfor- 
mance in a theater bearing the poetic name of Bower- 
sock. 

346 



A COLLEGE TOWN 

Rendered reckless by my disappointment, I retired to 
the Eldridge House dining room and ordered the fifty- 
cent luncheon. If it was the worst meal I had on my en- 
tire trip, it at least fulfilled an expectation, for I had 
heard that meals in western hotels were likely to be poor. 
It is only just to add, however, that a number of sturdy 
men who were seated about the room ate more heartily 
and vastly than any other people I have seen, excepting 
German tourists on a Rhine steamer. I envy Kansans 
their digestions. For my own part, I was less interested 
in my meal than in the waitresses. Has it ever struck 
you that hotel waitresses are a race apart? They are 
not like other women; not even like other waitresses. 
They are even shaped difTerently, having waists like 
wasps and bosoms which would resemble those of pouter 
pigeons if pouter pigeons' bosoms did not seem to be 
a part of them. Most hotel waitresses look to me as 
though, on reaching womanhood, they had inhaled a 
great breath and held it forever after. Qnly^the fear of 
being thought indelicate prevents my discussing further 
this curious phenomenon. However, I am reminded 
that, as Owen Johnson has so truly said, American 
writers are not permitted the freedom which is accorded 
to their Gallic brethren. There is, I trust, however, 
nothing improper in making mention of the striking dis- 
play of jewelry worn by the waitresses at the Eldridge 
House. All wore diamonds in their hair, and not one 
wore less than fifty thousand dollars' worth. These 
diamonds were set in large hairpins, and the show of 

347 



ABROAD AT HOME 

gems surpassed any I have ever seen by daylight. 
Luncheon at the Eldridge suggests, in this respect, a first 
night at the MetropoHtan Opera House in New York, 
and if it is Hke that at luncheon, what must it be at dinner 
time? Do they wear tiaras and diamond stomachers? 
I regret that I am unable to say, for, immediately after 
luncheon, I kept an appointment, previously made, with 
the driver of the auto hack. 

"Where do you boys want to go now?" he asked my 
companion and me as we appeared. 

"To the university," I said. 

"Students?" he asked, with kindly interest. 

Neither of us had been taken for a student in many, 
many years; the agreeable suggestion was worth an 
extra quarter to him. Perhaps he had guessed as 
much. 

The drive took us out Massachusetts Avenue, which, 
when it escapes the business part of town, becomes an 
agreeable, tree-bordered thoroughfare, reminiscent of 
New England. Presently our rattle-trap machine 
turned to the right and began the ascent of a hill so 
steep as to cause the driver to drop back into "first." 
It was a long hill, too ; we crawled up for several blocks 
before attaining the plateau at the top, where stands the 
University of Kansas. 

The setting of the college surprised us, for, if there 
was one thing that we had expected more than another, 
it was that Kansas would prove absolutely flat. Yet 
here we were on a mountain top — at least they call it 

348 



A COLLEGE TOWN 

Mount Oread — with the valley of the Kaw River below, 
and what seemed to be the whole of Kansas spread round 
about, like a vast panoramic mural decoration for the 
university — a maplike picture suggesting those splen- 
did decorations of Jules Guerin's in the Pennsylvania 
Terminal in New York. 

I know of no university occupying a more suitable po- 
sition or a more commanding view, although it must be 
recorded that the university has been more fortunate 
in the selection of its site than in its architecture and 
the arrangement of its grounds. Like other colleges 
founded forty or fifty years ago, the University of Kan- 
sas started in a small way, and failed entirely to antici- 
pate the greatness of its future. The campus seems to 
have "just growed" without regard to the grouping of 
buildings or to harmony between them, and the archi- 
tecture is generally poor. Nevertheless there is a sort 
of homely charm about the place, with its unimposing, 
helter-skelter piles of brick and stone, its fine trees, and 
its sweeping view. 

It was principally with the purpose of visiting the 
University of Kansas that we stopped in Lawrence. We 
had heard much of the great, energetic state colleges, 
which had come to hold such an important place educa- 
tionally, and in the general life of the Middle West and 
West, and had planned to visit one of them. Originally 
we had in mind the University of Wisconsin, because 
we had heard so much about it ; later, however, it struck 
us that everybody else had heard a good deal about it, 

349 



ABROAD AT HOME 

too, and that we had better visit some less widely ad- 
vertised college. We hit on the University of Kansas 
because Kansas is the most typical American agricul- 
tural state, and also because a Kansan, whom we met 
on the train, informed us that "In Kansas we are hell on 
education." 

In detail I knew little of these big state schools. I 
had heard, of course, of the broadening of their activi- 
ties to include a great variety of general state service, 
aside from their main purpose of giving some sort of 
college education, at very low cost, to young men and 
women of rural communities who desire to continue be- 
yond the public schools. I must confess, however, that, 
aside from such great universities as those of Michigan 
and Wisconsin, I had imagined that state universities 
were, in general, crude and ill equipped, by comparison 
with the leading colleges of the East. 

If the University of Kansas may, as I have been credi- 
bly informed, be considered as a typical western state 
university, then I must confess that my preconceptions 
regarding such institutions were as far from the facts 
as preconceptions, in general, are likely to be. The Uni- 
versity of Kansas is anything but backward. It is, 
upon the contrary, amazingly complete and amazingly 
advanced. Not only has it an excellent equipment and 
a live faculty, but also a remarkably energetic, eager 
student body, much more homogeneous and much more 
unanimous in its hunger for education than student 
bodies in eastern universities, as I have observed them. 

350 



A COLLEGE TOWN 

The University of Kansas has some three thousand 
students, about a thousand of them women. Consider- 
ably more than half of them are either partly or wholly 
self-supporting, and 12 per cent, of them earn th^ir way 
during the school months. The grip of the university 
upon the State may best be shown by statistics — if I may 
be forgiven the brief use of them. Out of 103 counties 
in Kansas only seven were not represented by students 
in the university in the years 1910-12 — the seven coun- 
ties being thinly settled sections in the southwest corner 
of the State. Seventy-three per cent, of last year's stu- 
dents were born in Kansas; more than a third of them 
came from villages of less than 2,000 population; and 
the father of one out of every three students was a 
farmer. 

Life at the university is comfortable, simple, and very 
cheap, the average cost, per capita, for the school year 
being perhaps $200, including school expenses, board, 
social expenses, etc., nor are there great social and 
financial gaps between certain groups of students, as in 
some eastern colleges. The university is a real democ- 
racy, in which each individual is judged according to 
certain standards of character and behavior. 

"Now and again," one young man told me, with a 
sardonic smile, "we get a country boy who eats with 
his knife. He may be a mighty good sort, but he is n't 
civilized. When a fellow like that comes along, we take 
him in hand and tell him that, aside from the danger of 
cutting his mouth, we have certain peculiar whims on 

351 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the subject of manners at table, and that it is better for 
him to eat as we do, because if he does n't it makes him 
conspicuous. Inside a week you '11 see a great chartge in 
a boy of that kind." 

Not only is the cost to the student low at the Univer- 
sity of Kansas, but the cost of operating the university 
is slight. In the year 1909-10 (the last year on which 
I have figures) the cost of operating sixteen leading col- 
leges in the United States averaged $232 per student. 
The cost per student at the University of Kansas is $175. 
One reason for this low per capita cost is the fact that 
the salaries of professors at the University of Kansas 
are unusually small. They are too small. It is one of 
the reproaches of this rich country of ours that, though 
we are always ready to spend vast sums on college build- 
ings, we pay small salaries to instructors; although it 
is the faculty, much more than the buildings, which make 
a college. So far as I have been able to ascertain, Har- 
vard pays the highest maximum salaries to professors, 
of any American university — $5,500 is the Harvard 
maximum. California, Cornell, and Yale have a $5,000 
maximum. Kansas has the lowest maximum I know 
of, the greatest salary paid to a professor there, accord- 
ing to last year's figures, having been $2,500. 

Before leaving New York I was told by a distinguished 
professor in an eastern imiversity that the students he 
got from the West had, almost invariably, more initiative 
and energy than those from the region of the Atlantic 
seaboard. 

352 



A COLLEGE TOWN 

"Just what do you mean by the West ?" I asked. 

"In general," he rephed, "I mean students from north 
and west of Chicago. If I show an eastern boy a ma- 
chine which he does not understand, the chances are 
that he will put his hands in his pockets and shake his 
head dubiously. But if I show the same machine to a 
western boy, he will go right at it, unafraid. Western 
boys usually have more 'gumption,' as they call it." 

Brief as was my visit to the University of Kansas, I 
felt that there, indeed, was "gumption." And it is easy to 
account for. The breed of men and women who are 
being raised in the Western States is a sturdier breed 
than is being produced in the East. They have just as 
much fun in their college life as any other students do, 
but practically none of them go to college just "to have 
a good time," or with the even less creditable purpose 
of improving their social position. Kansas is still too 
near to first principles to be concerned with superficiali- 
ties. It goes to college to work and learn, and its rea- 
son for wishing to learn are, for the most part, prac- 
tical. One does not feel, in the University of Kansas, 
the aspiration for a vague culture for the sake of culture 
only. It is, above all, a practical university, and its 
graduates are notably free from the cultural affectations 
which mark graduates of some eastern colleges, envel- 
oping them in a fog of pedantry which they mistake 
for an aura of erudition, and from which many of them 
never emerge. 

Directness, sincerity, strength, thoughtfulness, and 

353 



ABROAD AT HOME 

practicality are Kansas qualities. Even the very young 
men and women of Kansas are not far removed from 
pioneer forefathers, and it must be remembered that 
the Kansas pioneer differed from some others in that he 
possessed a strain of that Puritan love of freedom which 
not only brought his forefathers to Plymouth, but 
brought him overland to Kansas, as has been said, to 
cast his vote for abolition. Naturally, then, the zeal 
which fired him and his ancestors is reflected in his 
children and his grandchildren. And that, I think, is 
one reason why Kansas has developed ''cranks." 

Contrasting curiously with Kansas practicality, how- 
ever, there must be among the people of that State an- 
other quality of a very different kind, which I might 
have overlooked had I not chanced to see a copy of the 
''Graduate Magazine," and had I not happened to read 
the list of names of graduates who returned to the uni- 
versity for the last commencement. The list was not 
a very long one, yet from it I culled the following collec- 
tion of given names for women : Ava, Alverna, Angle, 
Ora, Amida, Lalia, Nadine, Edetha, Violetta, Flo, 
Claudia, Evadne, Nelle, Ola, Lanora, Amarette, Ber- 
nese, Minta, Juanita, Babetta, Lenore, Letha, Leta, 
Neva, Tekla, Delpha, Oreta, Opal, Flaude, Iva, Lola, 
Leora, and Zippa. 

Clearly, then, Kansas has a penchant for "fancy" 
names. Why, I wonder? Is it not, perhaps, a reaction, 
on the part of parents, against the eternal struggle with 
the soil, the eternal practicalities of farm life ? Is it an 

354 



A COLLEGE TOWN 

expression of the craving of Kansas mothers for poetry 
and romance? It seems to me that I detect a wistful 
something in those names of Kansas' daughters. 

Much has been heard, in the last few years, of the 
"Wisconsin idea" of linking up the state university with 
the practical life of the people of the State. This idea 
did not originate in Wisconsin, however, but in Kansas, 
where as long ago as 1868 a law was passed making 
the chancellor of the university State Sealer of Weights 
and Measures. Since that time the connection between 
the State and its great educational institutions has con- 
tinued to grow, until now the two are bound together by 
an infinite number of ties. 

For example, no municipality in Kansas may install 
a water supply, waterworks, or sewage plant without 
obtaining from the university sanction of the arrange- 
ments proposed. The dean of the University School of 
Medicine, Dr. S. J. Crumbine, is also secretary of the 
State Board of Health. It was Dr. Crumbine who 
started the first agitation against the common drinking 
cup, the roller towel, etc., and he succeeded in having 
a law passed by the State Legislature in Kansas abolish- 
ing these. He also accomplished the passage of a law 
providing for the inspection of hotels, and requiring, 
among other things, ten-foot sheets. All water analysis 
for the State is done at the university, as well as analysis 
in connection with food, drugs, etc., and student work 
is utilized in a practical way in connection with this 
state service, wherever possible. 

355 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Passing through the laboratories, I saw many exam- 
ples of this activity, and was shown quantities of samples 
of foods, beverages, and patent medicines, which had 
failed to comply with the requirements of the law. There 
was an artificial cider made up from alcohol and coal- 
tar dye; a patent medicine called "Spurmax," sold for 
fifty cents per package, yet containing nothing but col- 
ored Epsom salts; another patent medicine sold at the 
same price, containing the same material plus a little 
borax ; bottles of "Silver Top," a beer-substitute, designed 
to evade the prohibition law — bottles with sly labels, 
looking exactly alike, but which, on examination, proved, 
in some cases, to have mysteriously dropped the first 
two letters in the word ''unfermented." All sorts of 
things were being analyzed; paints were being inves- 
tigated for adulteration; shoes were being examined to 
see that they conformed to the Kansas "pure-shoe law," 
which requires that shoes containing substitutes for 
leather be stamped to indicate the fact. 

"This law," remarks "The Masses," "is being fought 
by Kansas shoe dealers who declare it unconstitutional. 
Apparently the right to wear paper shoes without know- 
ing it is another of our precious heritages." 

The same department of the university is engaged in 
showing different Kansas towns how to soften their 
water supply; efforts are also being made to find some 
means of softening the fiber of the Yucca plant — a weed 
which the farmers of western Kansas have been trying 
to get rid of — so that it may be utilized for making rope. 

356 



A COLLEGE TOWN 

The Kansas state flower is also being put to use for 
the manufacture of sunflower oil, which, in Russia, is 
burned in lamps, and which Kansas already uses, to some 
extent, as a salad dressing and also as a substitute for 
linseed oil. 

The university has also given attention to the situa- 
tion with regard to natural gas in Kansas, Professor 
Cady having recently appeared before the State Board 
of Utilities recommending that, as natural gas varies 
greatly as to heat units, the heat unit, rather than the 
measured foot, be made the basis for all charges by the 
gas companies. 

In one room I came upon a young man who was in 
charge of a machine for the manufacture of liquid air. 
This product is packed in vacuum cans and shipped to 
all parts of the world. I had never seen it before. It 
is strange stuff, having a temperature of 300 degrees 
below zero. The young man took a little of it in his 
hand (it looked like a small pill made of water), and, 
after holding it for an instant, threw it on the floor, 
where it evaporated instantly. He then took some in 
his mouth and blew it out in the form of a frosty smoke. 
He was an engaging young man, and seemed to enjoy 
immensely doing tricks with liquid air. 

In the department of entomology there is also great 
activity. Professor S. J. Hunter has, among other re- 
searches, been conducting for the last three years elab-= 
orate experiments designed to prove or disprove the 
Sambon theory with regard to pellagra. 

357 



ABROAD AT HOME 

"Pellagra," Professor Hunter explained to me, "has 
been known in Italy since 1782, but has existed in the 
United States for less than thirty years, although it is 
now found in nearly half our States and has become 
most serious in the South. Its cause, character, and 
cure are unknown, although there are several theories. 
One theory is that it is caused by poisoning due to the 
excessive use of corn products; another attributes it to 
cottonseed products; and the Sambon theory, dating 
from 1 910, attributes it to the sand fly, the theory being 
that the fly becomes infected through sucking the blood 
of a victim of pellagra, and then communicates the in- 
fection by biting other persons. In order to ascertain 
the truth or untruth of this contention, we have bred 
uncontaminated sand flies, and after having allowed 
them to bite infected persons, have let them bite mon- 
keys. The result of these experiments is not yet com- 
plete. One monkey is, however, sick, at this time, and 
his symptoms are not unlike certain symptoms of pella- 
gra." 

The university's Museum of Natural History con- 
tains the largest single panoramic display of stuffed 
animals in the world. This exhibition is contained in 
one enormous case running around an extensive room, 
and shows, in suitable landscape settings, American ani- 
mals from Alaska to the tropics. The collection is val- 
ued at $300,000, and was made, almost entirely, by mem- 
bers of the faculty and students. 

358 



A COLLEGE TOWN 

The Department of Physical Education is in charge 
of Dr. James Naismith, who can teach a man to swim in 
thirty minutes, and who is famous as the inventor of 
the game of basketball. Dr. Naismith devised basket- 
ball as a winter substitute for football, and gave the 
game its name because, originally, he used peach baskets 
at his goals. 

A very complete system of university extension is 
operated, covering an enormous field, reaching schools, 
colleges, clubs, and individuals, and assisting them in al- 
most all branches of education; also a Department of 
Correspondence Study, covering about 150 courses. 
Likewise, in the Department of Journalism a great 
amount of interesting and practical work is being done 
on the editorial, business, and mechanical sides of news- 
paper publishing. Following the general practice of 
other departments of the university, the Department of 
Journalism places its equipment and resources at the 
service of Kansas editors and publishers. A clearing 
house is maintained where buyers and sellers of news- 
paper properties may be brought together, printers are 
assisted in making estimates, cost-system blanks are 
supplied, and job type is cast and furnished free to 
Kansas publishers in exchange for their old worn-out 
type. 

These are but a few scattered examples of the inner 
and outer activities of the University of Kansas, as I 
noted them during the course of an afternoon and even- 

359 



ABROAD AT HOME 

ing spent there. For me the visit was an education. I 
wish that all Americans might visit such a university. 
But more than that, I wish that some system might be 
devised for the exchange of students between great col- 
leges in different parts of the country. Doubtless it 
would be a good thing for certain students at western 
colleges to learn something of the more elaborate life 
and the greater sophistication of the great colleges of 
the East, but more particularly I think that vast bene- 
fits might accrue to certain young men from Harvard, 
Yale, and similar institutions, by contact with such uni- 
versities as that of Kansas. Unfortunately, however, 
the eastern students, who would be most benefited by 
such a shift, would be the very ones to oppose it. Above 
all others, I should like to see young eastern aristocrats, 
spenders, and disciples of false culture shipped out to 
the West. It would do them good, and I think they 
would be amazed to find out how much they liked it. 
However, this idea of an exchange is not based so much 
on the theory that it would help the individual student 
as on the theory that greater mutual comprehension is 
needed by Americans. We do not know our country 
or our fellow countrymen as we should. We are too 
localized. We do not understand the United States 
as Germans understand Germany, as the French under- 
stand France, or as the British understand Great 
Britain. This is partly because of the great distances 
which separate us, partly because of the heterogeneous 
nature of our population, and partly because, being a 

360 



A COLLEGE TOWN 

young civilization, we flock abroad in quest of the ancient 
charm and picturesqueness of Europe. The "See Amer- 
ica First" idea, which originated as the advertising catch 
Hne of a western railroad, deserves serious consideration, 
not only because of what America has to offer in the way 
of scenery, but also because of what she has to offer in 
the way of people. I found that a great many thought- 
ful persons all over the United States were considering 
this point. 

In Detroit, for example, the Lincoln National High- 
way project is being vigorously pushed by the automo- 
bile manufacturers, and within a short time streams of 
motors will be crossing the continent. As a means of 
making Americans better acquainted with one another 
the automobile has already done good work, but its serv- 
ice in that direction has only begun. 

Mr. Charles C. Moore, president of the Panama-Pa- 
cific Exposition, whom I met, later, in San Francisco, 
told me that the authorities of the exposition had been 
particularly interested in the idea of promoting friendli- 
ness between Americans. 

"We Americans," said Mr. Moore, "are still wonder- 
ing what America really is, and what Americans really 
are. One of the greatest benefits of a fair like ours is 
the opportunity it gives us to form friendly ties with peo- 
ple from all over the country. We shall have a great 
series of congresses, conferences, and conventions, and 
will provide the use of halls without charge. The rail- 
roads are cooperating with us by making low round-trip 

361 



ABROAD AT HOME 

rates which enable the visitor to come one way and re- 
turn by another route, so that, besides seeing the fair, 
they can see the country. The more Americans there 
are who become interested in seeing the country, the bet- 
ter it is for us and for the United States. Any one re- 
quiring proof of the absolute necessity of a closer mutual 
understanding between the people of this country has 
but to look at the condition which exists in national 
politics. What do the Atlantic Coast Congressmen and 
the Pacific Coast Congressmen really know of one an- 
other's requirements? Little or nothing as a rule. 
They reach conclusions very largely by exchanging 
votes : T '11 vote for your measure if you '11 vote for 
mine.' That system has cost this country millions upon 
millions. If I had my way, there would be a law mak- 
ing it necessary for each Congressman to visit every 
State in the Union once in two years." 

In an earlier chapter I mentioned Quantrell's gang 
of border ruffians, of which Frank and Jesse James were 
members, and referred to the Lawrence massacre con- 
ducted by the gang. 

In all the border trouble, from 1855-6 to the time of 
the Civil War, Lawrence figured as the antislavery cen- 
ter. That and the ill feeling engendered by differences 
of opinion along the Missouri border with regard to 
slavery, caused the massacre. It occurred on August 
21, 1863. Lawrence had been expecting an attack by 
Quantrell for some time before that date, and had at 
one period posted guards on the roads leading to the 

362 



A COLLEGE TOWN 

eastward. After a time, however, this precaution was 
given up, enabUng Quantrell to surprise the town and 
make a clean sweep. He arrived at Lawrence at 5.30 
in the morning with about 450 men. Frank James told 
me that he himself was not present at the massacre, as 
he had been shot a short time before and temporarily dis- 
abled. 

Lawrence, which then had a population of about 1,200, 
was caught entirely unawares, and was absolutely at 
the mercy of the ruffians. A good many of the latter 
got drunk, which added to the horror, for these men 
were bad enough when sober. They burned down al- 
most the entire business section of the town, as well as 
a great many houses, and going into the homes, dragged 
out 163 men, unarmed and defenseless, and cold-blood- 
edly slaughtered them in the streets, before the eyes of 
their wives and children. Very few men who were in 
the town at the time, escaped, but among the survivors 
were twenty-live men who were in the Free State Hotel, 
the proprietor of which had once befriended Quantrell, 
and was for that reason spared together with his guests. 
Some forty or fifty persons living in Lawrence at the 
present time remember the massacre, most of these be- 
ing women who saw their husbands, fathers, brothers, 
or sons killed in the midst of the general orgy. Many 
stories of narrow escapes are preserved. In one instance 
a woman whose house had been set on fire, wrapped her 
husband in a rug, and dragged him, thus enveloped, in 
the yard as though attempting to save her rug from the 

363 



ABROAD AT HOME 

conflagration. There he remained until, on news that 
soldiers were on the way to the relief of the stricken 
town, the Quantrell gang withdrew. 



364 



CHAPTER XXIX 
MONOTONY 

WE left Lawrence late at night and went im- 
mediately to bed upon the train. When I 
awoke in the morning the car was standing 
still. In the ventilators overhead, I heard the steady 
monotonous whistling of the wind. As I became more 
awake I began to wonder where we were and why we 
were not moving. Presently I raised the window shade 
and looked out. 

How many things there are in life which we think we 
know from hearsay, yet which, when we actually en- 
counter them, burst upon us with a new and strange sig- 
nificance! I had believed, for example, that I realized 
the vastness of the United States without having actu- 
ally traveled across the country, yet I had not realized 
it at all, and I do not believe that any one can possibly 
realize it without having felt it, in the course of a ^ong 
journey. So too, with the interminable rolling desolation 
of the prairies, and the likeness of the prairies to the 
sea : I had imagined that I understood the prairies with- 
out having laid eyes upon them, but when I raised my 
window shade that morning, and found the prairies 
stretching out before me, I was as surprised, as stunned, 

365 



ABROAD AT HOME 

as though I had never heard of them before, and the 
idea came to me Hke an original thought: How per- 
fectly enormous they are ! And how like the sea ! 

I had discovered for myself the truth of another plati- 
tude. 

For a long time I lay comfortably in my berth, gazing 
out at the appalling spread of land and sky. Even at 
sea the great bowl of the sky had never looked so vast 
to me. The land was nothing to it. In the foreground 
there was nothing; in the middle distance, nothing; in 
the distance, nothing — nothing, nothing, nothing, met 
the eye in all that treeless waste of brown and gray 
which lay between the railroad line and the horizon, on 
which was discernible the faint outlines of several ships 
— ships which were in reality a house, a windmill and a 
barn. 

Presently our craft — for I had the feeling that I was 
on a ship at anchor — got under way. On we sailed over 
the ocean of land for mile upon mile, each mile like the 
one before it and the one that followed, save only when 
we passed a little fleet of houses, like fishing boats at 
sea, or crossed an inconsequential wagon road, resem- 
bling the faintly discernible wake of some ship, long 
since out of sight. 

Presently I arose and joining my companion, went to 
the dining car for breakfast. He too had fallen under 
the spell of the prairies. We sat over our meal and 
stared out of the window like a pair of images. After 
breakfast it was the same: we returned to our car and 



i 



MONOTONY 

continued to gaze out at the eternal spaces. Later in 
the morning, we became restless and moved back to the 
observation car as men are driven by boredom from one 
room to another on an ocean liner. 

Now and then in the distance we would see cattle like 
dots upon the plain, and once in a long time a horseman 
ambling along beneath the sky. The little towns were 
far apart and had, like the surrounding scenery, an air 
of sadness and of desolation. The few buildings were 
of primitive form, most of them one-story structures 
of wood, painted in raw color. But each little settle- 
ment had its wooden church, and each church its steeple 
— a steeple crude and pathetic in its expression of 
effort on the part of a poor little hamlet to embellish, 
more than any other house, the house of God. 

Even our train seemed to have been affected by this 
country. The observation car was deserted when we 
reached it. Presently, however, a stranger joined us 
there, and after a time we fell into conversation with him 
as we sat and looked at the receding track. 

He proved to be a Kansan and he told us interesting 
things about the State. 

Aside from wheat, which is the great Kansas crop, 
corn is grown in eastern Kansas, and alfalfa in various 
parts of the State. Alfalfa stays green throughout the 
greater part of the year as it goes through several sow- 
ings. Fields of alfalfa resemble clover fields, save that 
the former grows more densely and is of a richer, darker 
shade of green. After alfalfa has grown a few years 

367 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the roots run far down into the ground, often reaching 
the "underflow" of western Kansas. This underflow is 
very characteristic of that part of the State, where it is 
said, there are many lost rivers flowing beneath the sur- 
face, adding one more to the Hst of Kansas phenomena. 
Some of these rivers flow only three or four feet below 
the ground, I am told, while others have reached a depth 
of from twenty to a hundred feet. Alfalfa roots will 
go down twenty feet to find the water. The former bed 
of the Republican River in northwestern Kansas is, with 
the exception of a narrow strip in the middle where the 
river runs on the surface in flood times, covered with 
rich alfalfa fields. Excepting at the time of spring and 
summer rains, this river is almost dry. The old bridges 
over it are no longer necessary except when the rains 
occur, and the river has piled sand under them until in 
some places there is not room for a man to stand be- 
neath bridges which, when built, were ten and twelve 
feet above the river bed. Now, I am told, they don't 
build bridges any more, but lay cement roads through 
the sand, clearing their surfaces after the freshets. 

The Arkansas River once a mighty stream, has held 
out with more success than the Republican against the 
winds and drifting sands, but it is slowly and certainly 
disappearing, burying itself in the sand and earth it 
carries down at flood times — a work in which it is as- 
sisted by the strong, persistent prairie winds. 

The great wheat belt begins somewhere about the mid- 
dle of the State and continues to the west. In the spring 

368 




Even at sea the great bowl of the sky had never looked to me so vast 



i 

i 



MONOTONY 

the wheat is light green in color and is flexible in the 
wind so that at that time of year, the resemblance of the 
prairies to the sea is much more marked, and travelers 
are often heard to declare that the sight of the green 
billows makes them seasick. The season in Kansas is 
about a month earlier than in the eastern states ; in May 
and June the wheat turns yellow, and in the latter part 
of June it is harvested, leaving the prairies brown and 
bare again. 

The prairie land which is not sown in wheat or alfalfa, 
is covered with prairie grass — a long, wiry grass, lighter 
in shade than blue grass, which waves in the everlasting 
wind and glistens like silver in the sun. 

Rain, sun, wind! The elements rule over Kansas. 
People's hearts are light or heavy according to the 
weather and the prospects as to crops. My Kansan 
friend in the observation car pointed out to me the fact 
that at every railroad siding the railroad company had 
paid its respects to the Kansas wind by the installation 
of a device known as a "derailer," the purpose of which 
is to prevent cars from rolling or blowing from a siding 
out onto the main line. If a car starts to blow along 
the siding, the derailer catches it before it reaches the 
switch, and throws one truck off the track. 

"I suppose you 've seen cyclones out here, too ?" I 
asked the Kansan. 

"Oh, yes," he said. 

"Do the people out in this section of the State all have 
cyclone cellars ?" 

369 



ABROAD AT HOME 

"Oh, some," he said. ''Some has 'em. But a great 
many folks don't pay no attention to cyclones." 

Last year, during a bad drought in western Kansas, 
the wind performed a new feat, adding another item 
to Kansas tradition. A high wind came in February 
and continued until June, actually blowing away a large 
portion of the top-soil of Thomas County, denuding a 
tract of land fifteen by twenty miles in extent. It was ^ 
not a mere surface blow, either. In many places two 
feet of soil would be carried away; roads were obliter- 
ated, houses stood like dreary, deserted little forts, the 
earth piled up breast high around their wire-enclosed 
dooryards, and fences fell because the supporting soil 
was blown away from the posts. During this time the 
air was full of dust, and after it was over the country 
had reverted to desert — a desert not of sand, but of 
dust. 

This story sounded so improbable that I looked up a 
man who had been in Thomas County at the time. He 
told me about it in detail. 

"I have spent most of my life in the Middle West," 
he said, "but that exhibition was a revelation to me of 
the power of the wind. A quarter of the county was 
stripped bare. The farmers had, for the most part, 
moved out of the district because they could n't keep the 
wheat in the ground long enough to raise a crop. But 
they were camped around the edges, making common 
cause against the wind. You could n't find a man among 
them, either, who would admit that he was beaten. The 

370 



MONOTONY 

kind of men who are beaten by things Hke that could n't 
stand the racket in western Kansas. The fellows out 
there are the most outrageously optimistic folks I ever 
saw. They will stand in the wind, eating the dirt that 
blows into their mouths, and telling you what good soil 
it is — they don't mean good to eat, either — and if you 
give them a kind word they are up in arms in a minute 
trying to sell you some of the cursed country. 

"The men I talked to attributed the trouble to too 
much harrowing ; they said the surface soil was scratched 
so fine that it simply would n't hold. There were wild 
theories, too, of meteorological disturbances, but I think 
those were mostly evolved in the brains of Sunday edi- 
tors. 

"The farmers fought the thing systematically by a 
process they called 'listing': a turning over of the top- 
soil with plows. And after a while the listing, for some 
reason known only to the Almighty and the Department 
of Agriculture, actually did stop the trouble and the land 
stayed put again. Then the farmers planted Kaffir corn 
because it grows easily, and because they needed a net- 
work of roots to hold down the soil. Most of that land 
was reclaimed by the end of last summer." 

The little towns along the line are almost all alike. 
Each has a watering tank for locomotives, a grain ele- 
vator, and a cattle pen, beside the track. Each has a 
station made of wide vertical boards, their seams cov- 
ered by wooden strips, and the whole painted ochre. 
Then there is usually a wide, sandy main street with a 

371 



ABROAD AT HOME 

few brick buildings and more wooden ones, while on the 
outskirts of the town are shanties, covered with tar 
paper, and beyond them the eternal prairie. You can 
see no more reason why a town should be at that point 
on the prairie than at any other point. And it is a fact, 
I believe, that, in many instances, the railroad companies 
have simply created towns, arbitrarily, at even distances. 
The only town I recall that looked in any way different 
from every other town out there, was Wallace, where 
a storekeeper has made a lot of curious figures, in twisted 
wire, and placed them on the roof of his store, whence 
they project into the air for a distance of twenty or thirty 
feet. 

I think, though I am not sure, that it was before we 
crossed the Colorado line when we saw our first 'dobe 
house, our first sage brush, and our first tumbleweed. 
Mark Twain has described sagebrush as looking like 
"a gnarled and venerable live oak tree reduced to a little 
shrub two feet high, with its rough bark, its foliage, its 
twisted boughs, all complete." In ''Roughing It" he 
writes two whole pages about sagebrush, telling how it 
gives a gray-green tint to the desert country, how hardy 
it is, and how it is used for making camp fires on the 
plains and he winds up with this characteristic para- 
graph : 

"Sagebrush is very fair fuel, but as a vegetable it is 
a distinguished failure. Nothing can abide the taste 
of it but the jackass and his illegitimate child, the mule. 
But their testimony to its nutritiousness is worth noth- 

Z7^ 



I 



I 



'^ .4 




.^>bjWi'^-;:4«j»*i'i 






MONOTONY 

ing, for they will eat pine knots, or anthracite coal, or 
brass filings, or lead pipe, or old bottles, or anything 
that comes handy, and then go off looking as grateful as 
if they had had oysters for dinner." 

Though Mark Twain tells about coyotes and prairie 
dogs — animals which I looked for, but regret to say I 
did not see — he ignores the tumbleweed, the most curi- 
ous thing, animal, vegetable, or mineral, that crossed 
my vision as I crossed the plains. I cannot understand 
why Mark Twain did not mention this weed, because he 
must have seen it, and it must have delighted him, with 
its comical gyrations. 

Tumbleweed is a bushy plant which grows to a height 
of perhaps three feet, and has a mass of little twigs and 
branches which make its shape almost perfectly round. 
Fortunately for the amusement of mankind, it has a 
weak stalk, so that, when the plant dries, the wind breaks 
it off at the bottom, and then proceeds to roll it, over and 
over, across the land. I well remember the first tumble- 
weed we saw. 

''What on earth is that thing?" cried my companion, 
suddenly, pointing out through the car window. I 
looked. Some distance away a strange, buff-colored 
shape was making a swift, uncanny progress toward the 
east. It wasn't crawling; it wasn't running; but it 
was traveling fast, with a rolling, tossing, careening mo- 
tion, like a barrel half full of whisky, rushing down hill. 
Now it tilted one way, now another ; now it shot swiftly 
into some slight depression in the plain, but only to come 

Z7Z 



ABROAD AT HOME 

bounding lightly out again, with an air indescribably 
gay, abandoned and inane. 

Soon we saw another and another ; they became more 
and more common as we went along until presently they 
were rushing everywhere, careering in their maudlin 
course across the prairie, and piled high against the 
fences along the railroad's right of way, like great con- 
cealing snowdrifts. 

We fell in love with tumbleweed and never while it 
was in sight lost interest in its idiotic evolutions. Ex- 
cepting only tobacco, it is the greatest weed that grows, 
and it has the advantage over tobacco that it does no 
man any harm, but serves only to excite his risibilities. 
It is the clown of vegetation, and it has the air, as it 
rolls along, of being conscious of its comicality, like the 
smart caniche, in the dog show, who goes and overturns 
the basket behind the trainer's back; or the circus clown 
who runs about with a rolling gait, tripping, turning 
double and triple somersaults, rising, running on, trip- 
ping, falling, and turning over and over again. Who 
shall say that tumbleweed is useless, since it contributes 
a rare note of drollery to the tragic desolation of the 
western plains? 

As I have said, I am not certain that we saw the tum- 
bleweed before we crossed the line from Kansas into 
Colorado, but there is one episode that I remember, 
and which I am certain occurred before we reached the 
boundary, for I recall the name of the town at which 
it happened. 

374 



MONOTONY 

It was a sad-looking- little town, like all the rest — ^just 
a main street and a few stores and houses set down in 
the midst of the illimitable waste. Our train stopped 
there. 

I saw a man across the aisle look out of the window, 
scowl, rise from his seat, throw up his arms, and ex- 
claim, addressing no one in particular: "God! How 
can they stand living out here? I 'd rather be dead!" 

My companion and I had been speaking of the same 
thing, wondering how people could endure their lives in 
such a place. 

"Come on," he said, rising. "This is the last stop be- 
fore we get to Colorado. Let 's get out and walk." 

I followed him from the car and to the station plat- 
form. 

Looking away from the station, we gazed upon a fore- 
ground the principal scenic grandeur of which was sup- 
plied by a hitching post. Beyond lay the inevitable 
main street and dismal buildings. One of them, as I 
recall it, was painted sky-blue, and bore the simple, un- 
ostentatious word, "Hotel." 

My companion gazed upon the scene for a time. He 
looked melancholy. Finally, without turning his head, 
he spoke. 

"How would you like to get off and spend a week 
here, some day?" he asked me. 

"You mean get off some day and spend a week," I 
corrected. 

"No, I mean get off and spend a week some day." 

375 



ABROAD AT HOME 

I was still cogitating over that when the train started. 
We scrambled aboard and, resuming our seats in the 
observation car, looked back at the receding station. 
There, in strong black letters on a white sign, we saw, 
for the first time, the name of the town : 

Monotony ! 



376 



THE MOUNTAINS AND THE COAST 



CHAPTER XXX 
UNDER PIKE'S PEAK 

WHAT a curious thing it is, that mental proc- 
ess by which a first impression of a city is 
summed up. A railway station, a taxicab, 
swift glimpses through a dirty window of streets, build- 
ings, people, blurred together, incoherently, like moving 
pictures out of focus; then a quick unconscious adding 
of infinitesimal details and the total: 'T like this city," 
or: "I do not like it." 

It was late afternoon when the train upon which we 
had come from eastern Kansas stopped at the Denver 
station — a substantial if not distinguished structure, 
neither new nor very old, but of that architectural period 
in which it was considered that a roof was hardly more 
essential to a station than a tower. 

Passing through the building and emerging upon the 
taxi stand, we found ourselves confronted by an elabo- 
rate triple gateway of bronze, somewhat reminiscent 
of certain city gates of Paris, at which the octroi waits 
with the inhospitable purpose of collecting taxes. How- 
ever, Denver has no octroi, nor is the Denver gate a 
barrier. Indeed, it is not even a gate, having no doors, 
but is intended merely as a sort of formal portal to the 
city — a city proud of its climate, of the mountain 

379 



ABROAD AT HOME 

scenery, and of its reputation for thoroughgoing hospi- 
tahty. Over the large central arch of this bronze mon- 
strosity the beribboned delegate (arriving to attend one 
of the many conventions always being held in Denver) 
may read, in large letters, the word "Welcome"; and 
when, later, departing, he approaches the arch from the 
city gate, he finds Denver giving him godspeed with the 
word "Mizpah." 

Passing beneath the central arch, our taxi swept along 
a wide, straight street, paved with impeccably smooth 
asphalt, and walled in with buildings tall enough and 
solid enough to do credit to the business and shopping- 
district of any large American city. 

All this surprised me. Perhaps because of the unfa- 
vorable first impression I had received in Kansas City, 
I had expected Denver, being farther west, to have a less 
finished look. Furthermore, I had been reading Richard 
Harding Davis's book, "The West Through a Car Win- 
dow," which, though it told me that Denver is "a. smaller 
New York in an encircling range of white-capped moun- 
tains," added that Denever has "the worst streets in 
the country." Denver is still by way of being a minia- 
ture New York, with its considerable number of eastern 
families, and its little replica of Broadway cafe life, 
as well; but the Denver streets are no longer ill paved. 
Upon the contrary, they are among the best paved streets 
possessed by any city I have visited. That caused me 
to look at the copyright notice in Mr. Davis's book, 
whereupon I discovered, to my surprise, that twenty- 

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UNDER PIKE'S PEAK 

two years (and Heaven only knows how many steam 
rollers) had passed over Denver since the book was 
written. Yet, barring such improvements, the picture is 
quite accurate to-day. 

Another feeling of my first ten nlinutes in Denver 
w^as one of wonder at the city's flatness. That part of 
it through which we passed on the way to the Brown 
Palace Hotel was as flat as Chicago, whereas I had 
always thought of Denver as being in the mountains. 
Plowever, if flat, the streets looked attractive, and I 
arrived at the proudly named caravansary with the 
feeling that Denver was a fine young city. 

Meeting cities, one after another, as I met them on 
this journey, is like being introduced, at a reception, 
to a line of strangers. A glance, a handshake, a word 
or two, and you have formed an impression of an in- 
dividuality. But there is this difference : the individual 
at the reception is "fixed up" for the occasion, whereas 
the city has but one exterior to show to every one. 

That the exterior shown by Denver is pleasing has 
been, until recently, a matter more or less of accident. 
The city was laid out by pioneers and mining men, who 
showed their love of liberality in making the streets 
wide. There is nothing close about Denver. She has 
the open-handed, easy affluence of a mining city. She 
spends money freely on good pavements and good build- 
ings. Thus, without any brilliant comprehensive plan 
she has yet grown from a rough mining camp into a de- 
lightful city, all in the space of fifty years, 

381 



ABROAD AT HOME 

A little more than a hundred years ago Captain Zebu- 
Ion Pike crossed the plains and visited the territory 
which is now Colorado, though it was then a part of 
the vast country of Louisiana. Long, Fremont, Kit 
Carson, and the other early pioneers followed, but it 
was not until 1858 that gold was found on the banks 
of Cherry Creek, above its juncture with the South 
Platte River, causing a camp to be located on the pres- 
ent site of Denver. The first camp was on the west 
side of Cherry Creek and was named Auraria, after a 
town in Georgia. On the east side there developed an- 
other camp, St. Charles by name, and these two camps 
remained, for some time, independent of each other. 
The discovery of gold in California brought a new in- 
flux of men to Colorado — though the part of Colorado 
in which Denver stands was then in the territory of 
Kansas, which extended to the Rockies. Many of the 
pioneers were men from eastern Kansas, and hence it 
happened that when the mining camps of Auraria and 
St. Charles were combined into one town, the town was 
named for General James W. Denver, then Governor of 
Kansas. 

Kansas City and Denver are about of an age and are 
comparable in many ways. The former still remains a 
kind of capital to which naturally gravitate men who 
have made fortunes in southwestern oil and cattle, while 
the latter is a mining capital. Of her "hundred million- 
aires," most have been enriched by mines, and the story 
of her sudden fortunes and of her famous "characters" 

382 



UNDER PIKE'S PEAK 

makes a long and racy chapter in American history, 
running the gamut from tragedy to farce. And, Hke 
Kansas City, Denver is particularly American. Prac- 
tically all her millionaires, past and present, came of na- 
tive stock, and almost all her wealth has been taken from 
ground in the State of Colorado. 

J. M. Oskison, in his "Unconventional Portrait," pub- 
lished in "Collier's" a year or so ago, told a great deal 
about Denver in a few words: 

Last October a frock-coated clergyman of the Episcopal 
Church stood up in one of the luxurious parlors of Denver's 
newest hotel and said : " I am an Arapahoe Indian ; when I was 
a little boy my people used to hunt buffalo all over this country ; 
we made our camps right on this place where Denver is now." 
There is not very much gray in that man's hair. 

In the summer of 1867, when Vice-President Colfax came to 
Denver from Cheyenne, after a stage ride of twenty-two hours, 
he found it a hopeful city of 5,000. Denver had just learned that 
Cherry Creek sometimes carried a great deal of water down to 
the Platte River, and that it was n't wise to build in its bed. 

Irrigation has made a garden of the city and lands about. 
There are 240,000 people who make Denver their home to-day. 
The city under the shadow of the mountains is spread over an 
area of sixty square miles ; a plat of redeemed desert with an 
assessed valuation of $135,000,000. 

In 1870, three years after the visit of Colfax, Den- 
ver got its first railroad: a spur line from Cheyenne; 
in the 8o's it got street cars; to-day it has the look of 
a city that is made — and well made. But, as I have 
said before, that has, hitherto, been largely a matter 
of good fortune. Denver's youth has saved her from 

383 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the municipal disease which threatens such older cities 
as St. Louis and St. Paul: hardening of the arteries of 
traffic. Also, nature has given her what may be termed 
a good ''municipal complexion," wherein she has been 
more fortunate than Kansas City, whose warts and wens 
have necessitated expensive operations by the city 
"beauty doctor." 

Now, a city with the natural charm of Denver is, like 
a woman similarly endowed, in danger of l^ecoming 
oversure. Either is likely to lie back and rest upon Na- 
ture's bounty. Yet, to Denver's eternal credit be it said, 
she has not fallen into the ways of indolent self-satis- 
faction. Indeed, I know of no American city which has 
done, and is doing, more for herself. Consider these 
few random items taken from the credit side of her 
balance: She is one of the best lighted cities in the 
land. She has the commission form of government. 
(Also, as you will remember, she has woman suffrage, 
Colorado having been the first State to accept it.) • Her 
Children's Court, presided over by Judge Ben B. Lind- 
sey, is famous. She has no bread line, and, as for crime, 
when I asked Police Inspector Leonard De Lue about 
it, he shook his head and said: "No; business is light. 
The fact is we ain't got no crime out here." Denver 
owns her own Auditorium, where free concerts are given 
by the city. Also, in one of her parks, she has a city 
race track, where sport is the only consideration, betting, 
even between horse owners, having been successfully 
eliminated. Furthermore, Denver has been one of the 

384 



UNDER PIKE'S PEAK 

first American cities to begin work on a "civic center." 
Several blocks before the State Capitol have been cleared 
of buildings, and a plaza is being laid out there which 
will presently be a Tuileries Garden, in miniature, sur- 
rounded by fine public buildings, forming a suitable cen- 
tral feature for the admirable system of parks and 
boulevards which already exists. 

Curiously enough, however, by far the smallest part 
of Denver's parks are within the confines of the city. 
About five years ago Mr. John Brisben Walker pro- 
posed that mountain parks be created. Denver seized 
upon the idea with characteristic energy, with the re- 
sult that she now has mountain parks covering forty 
square miles in neighboring counties. These parks have 
an area almost as great as that of the whole city, and 
are connected with the Denver boulevards by fine roads, 
so that some of the most spectacular motor trips in the 
country are within easy range of the "Queen City of the 
Plains." 

But though the mountains give Denver her individu- 
ality, and though she has made the most of them, they 
have not proved an unmixed blessing. The riches which 
she has extracted from them, and the splendid setting 
that they give her, is the silver lining to her commercial 
cloud. The mountains directly west of Denver form 
a barrier which has forced the main lines of trancon- 
tinental travel to the north and south, leaving Denver 
in a backwater. 

To overcome this handicap the late David Moffat, 

385 



ABROAD AT HOME 

one of Denver's early millionaires, started in to build 
the Denver & Salt Lake Railroad, better known as the 
Moffat Road. This railway strikes almost due west 
from Denver and crosses the continental divide at an 
altitude of over two miles. While it is one of the most 
astonishing pieces of railroad in the world, its wind- 
ings and severe grades have made operation difficult 
and expensive, and the road has been built only as far 
as Craig, Colo., less than halfway to Salt Lake City. 
The great difficulty has always been the crossing of the 
divide. The city of Denver has now come forward 
with the Moffat tunnel project, and has extended her 
credit to the extent of three million dollars, for the pur- 
pose of helping the railroad company to build the tunnel. 
It will be more than six miles long, and will penetrate 
the Continental Divide at a point almost half a mile 
below that now reached by the road, saving twenty-four 
miles in distance and over two per cent, in grade. The 
tunnel is now under construction, and will, when com- 
pleted, be the longest railroad tunnel in the Western 
Hemisphere. The railroad company stands one-third 
of the cost, while the city of Denver undertakes two- 
thirds. When completed, this route will be the shortest 
between Denver and Salt Lake by many miles. 

Nor is Denver giving her entire attention to her rail- 
way line. The good-roads movement is strong through- 
out the State of Colorado. Last year two million dol- 
lars was expended under the direction of the State High- 
way Commission — a very large sum when it is consid- 

386 



UNDER PIKE'S PEAK 

ered that the total population of the State is not a great 
deal larger than that of the city of St. Louis. 

The construction of roads in Colorado is carried on 
under a most advanced system. Of a thousand con- 
victs assigned to the State Penitentiary at Canon City, 
four hundred are employed upon road work. In travel- 
ing through the State I came upon several parties of 
these men, and had I not been informed of the fact, I 
should never have known that they were convicts. I 
met them in the mountains, where they live in camps 
many miles distant from the penitentiary. They seemed 
always to be working with a will, but as we passed, they 
would look up and smile and wave their hands to us. 
They appeared healthy, happy, and — respectable. They 
do not wear stripes, and their guards are unarmed, be- 
ing selected, rather, as foremen with a knowledge of 
road building. When one considers the ghastly mine 
wars which have, at intervals, disgraced the State, it 
is comforting to reflect upon Colorado's enlightened 
methods of handling her prisons and her prisoners. 

Denver, in her general architecture, is more attrac- 
tive than certain important cities to the eastward of 
her. Her houses are, for the most part, built solidly 
of brick and stone, and more taste has been displayed in 
them, upon the whole, than has been shown In either 
St. Louis or Kansas City. Like Kansas City, Denver 
has many long, tree-bordered streets lined with modest 
homes which look new and which are substantially built, 
but there is less monotony of design in Denver. 

387 



ABROAD AT HOME 

As in Kansas City, the wonder of Denver is that it 
has all happened in such a short time. This was brought 
home to me when, dining in a delightful house one even- 
ing, I was informed by my hostess that the land on 
which is her home was "homesteaded," in '64 or '65, 
by her father; that is to say, he had taken it over, 
gratis, from the Government. That modest corner 
lot is now worth between fifteen and twenty thousand 
dollars. 

Though Denver has no art gallery, she hopes to have 
one in connection with her new "civic center." In the 
meantime, some paintings are shown in the Public 
Library and in the Colorado Museum of Natural His- 
tory — a building which also shelters a collection of 
stuffed animals (somewhat better, on the whole, than 
the paintings) and of minerals found in the State. 

A symphony hall is planned along with the new art 
gallery, for Denver has a real interest in music. In- 
deed, I found that true of many cities in the Middle 
West and West. In Kansas City, for instance, impor- 
tant concerts are patronized not only by residents of the 
place, but by quantities of people who come in from 
other cities and towns within a radius of thirty or forty 
miles. 

Denver has her own symphony orchestra, one which 
compares favorably with many other large orchestras 
in various parts of the country. The Denver organiza- 
tion is led by Horace Tureman, a very capable conduc- 
tor, and its seventy musicians have been gathered from 

388 



UNDER PIKE'S PEAK 

theater and cafe orchestras throughout the city. Six 
or eight programs of the highest character are given 
each season, and in order that all music lovers may be 
enabled to attend the concerts, seats are sold as low as 
ten cents each. 

"If some of the big concert singers who come out 
here could hear one of our symphony programs," one 
Denver woman said to me, "I think they might revise 
their opinion of us. A great many of them must think 
us less advanced, musically, than we are, for they insist 
on singing 'The Suwanee River' and 'Home, Sweet 
Home' — which we always resent." 

The one conspicuous example of sculpture which I 
saw in Denver — the Pioneer's Fountain, by Macmonnies 
— is not entirely Denver's fault. When a city gives an 
order to a sculptor of Macmonnies's standing, she shows 
that she means to do the best she can. It is then up to 
the sculptor. 

The Pioneer's Fountain, which is intended to com- 
memorate the early settlers, could hardly be less suit- 
able. It is large and exceedingly ornate. Surmount- 
ing the top of it is a rococo cowboy upon a pony of 
the same extraction. The pony is not a cow-pony, and 
the cowboy is not a cowboy, but a theatrical figure: 
something which might have been modeled by a French- 
man whose acquaintance with this country had been 
limited to the reading of bad translations of Fenimore 
Cooper and Bret Harte. At the base of the fountain 
are figures which, I was informed, represent pioneers. 

389 



ABROAD AT HOME 

If western pioneers had been like these, there never 
would have been a West. They are soft creatures, al- 
most voluptuous, who would have wept in face of hos- 
tile Indians. The whole fountain seems like something 
intended for a mantel ornament in Dresden china, but 
which, through some confusion, had gotten itself en- 
larged and cast in bronze. 

Society in Denver has several odd features. For one 
thing, it is the habit of fashionables, and those who 
wish to gaze upon them, to attend the theaters on cer- 
tain nights, which are known as "society night." Thus, 
the Broadway Theater has "society night" on Mondays, 
the Denham on Wednesdays, and the Orpheum on Fri- 
days. 

"Society," of course, means different things to dif- 
ferent persons. In Denver the word, used in its most 
restricted, most elegant, most recherche, and most ex- 
clusive sense, means that group of persons who are 
celebrated in the society columns of the Denver news- 
papers, as "The Sacred Thirty-six." 

If it is possible for newspapers anywhere to outdo 
in idiocy those of New York in the handling of "so- 
ciety news," I should say that the Denver newspapers 
accomplished it. Having less to work with, they have 
to make more noise in proportion. Thus the arrival 
in Denver, at about the time I was there, of Lord and 
Lady Decies caused an amount of agitation the like of 
which I have never witnessed anywhere. The Denver 
papers were absolutely plastered over with the pictures 

390 



UNDER PIKE'S PEAK 

and doings and sayings of this English gentleman and 
his American wife, and the matter published with re- 
gard to them revealed a delight in their presence which 
was childlike and engaging. 

I have a copy of one Denver paper, containing an 
interview with Lord and Lady Decies, in which the re- 
porter mentions having been greeted "like I was a regu- 
lar caller," adding: *'The more I looked the grander 
everything got." The same reporter referred to Decies 
as "the Lord," which must have struck him as more 
flattering than when, later, he was mentioned as "His 
Nibs." The interviewer, however, finally approved the 
visitors, stating definitely that "they are Regular Folks 
and they don't four-flush about anything." 

When it comes to publicity there is one man in Denver 
who gets more of it than all the "Sacred Thirty-six" 
put together, adepts though they seem to be. 

It is impossible to consider Denver without consider- 
ing Judge B. Lindsey — although I may say in passing 
that I was urged to perform the impossible in this re- 
spect. 

Opinion with regard to Judge Lindsey Is divided In 
Denver. It is passionately divided. I talked not only 
with the Judge himself, but with a great many citizens 
of various classes, and while I encountered no one who 
did not believe in the celebrated Juvenile Court con- 
ducted by him, I found many who disapproved more 
or less violently of certain of his political activities, his 
speech-making tours, and, most of all, of his writings 

391 



ABROAD AT HOME 

in the magazines which, it was contended, had given 
Denver a black eye. 

Denver is clearly sensitive about her reputation. As 
a passing observer, I am not surprised. With Denver, 
I believe that she has had to take more than a fair share 
of criticism. She thoroughly is sick of it, and one way 
in which she shows that she is sick of it is by a billboard 
campaign. 

"Denver has no bread line," I read on the billboards. 
''Stop knocking. Boost for more business and a bigger 
city." 

The charge that the Judge had injured Denver by 
''knocking" it in his book was used against him freely 
in the 1912 and 1914 campaign, but he was elected by a 
majority of more than two to one. He is always 
elected. He has run for his judgeship ten times in the 
past twelve years — this owing to certain disputes as to 
whether the judgeship of the Juvenile Court is a city, 
county, or state office. But whatever kind of office it 
is, he holds it firmly, having been elected by all three. 

At present the Judge is engaged in trying to complete 
a code of laws for the protection of women and children, 
which he hopes will be a model for all other States. 
This code will cover labor, juvenile delinquency, and 
dependency, juvenile courts, mothers' compensation, so- 
cial insurance (the Judge's term for a measure guaran- 
teeing every woman the support of her child, whether 
she be married or unmarried), probation, and other mat- 
ters having to do with social and industrial justice to- 

392 



UNDER PIKE'S PEAI 



V 



ward mother and child. It is the Judge's general pur- 
pose to humanize the law, to cause temptations and 
frailties to be considered by the law, and to make society 
responsible for its part in crime. 

The Judge is also trying to get himself appointed a 
Commissioner of Child Welfare for the State, without 
salary or other expense. 

Of all these activities Denver, so far as I could learn, 
seemed generally to approve. A number of women, 
two corporation presidents, a hotel waiter, and a clerk 
in an express office, among others, told me they ap- 
proved of Lindsey's work for women and children. A 
barber in the hotel said that he "guessed the Judge was 
all right," but added that there had been "too much 
hollering about reform," considering that Denver was 
a city depending for a good deal of her prosperity upon 
tourists. 

In the more intelligent circles the great objections to 
the Judge seemed to rest upon the florid methods he has 
used to promote his causes, upon the diversity of his in- 
terests, and upon the allegation that he had become a 
demagogue. 

One gentleman described him to me as "the most 
hated citizen of Colorado in Colorado, and the most ad- 
mired citizen of Colorado everywhere outside the State." 

"Lindsey has done the State harm, perhaps," said 
this gentleman, "by what he has said about it, but he 
has done us a lot of good with his reforms. The great 
trouble is that he has too many irons in the fire. His 

393 



ABROAD AT HOME 

court Is a splendid thing; we all admit that. And he 
is peculiarly suited to his work. But he has gotten into 
all kinds of movements and has been so widely adver- 
tised that he has become a monumental egotist. He be- 
lieves in his various causes, but, more than anything 
else, he believes in himself, in getting himself before the 
public and keeping himself there. He has posed as a 
little god, and, as Shaw says: 'H you pose as a little 
god, you must pose for better or for worse.' " 

The Judge is a very small, slight man, with a high, 
bulging white forehead, thin hair, a sharp, aquiline nose, 
a large, rolling black mustache and very fine eyes, brown 
almost to blackness. The most striking things about 
him are the eyes, the forehead, and the waxy whiteness 
of his skin. He looks thin-skinned, but he seems to have 
proved that, in the metaphorical sense at least, he Is 
not. 

He speaks of his causes quietly but very earnestly, 
and you feel, as you listen to him, that he hardly ever 
thinks of other things. There Is something strange and 
very individual about him. 

'The story of one American city," he said to me, "Is 
the story of every American city. Denver is no worse 
than the rest. Indeed, I believe it Is a cleaner and bet- 
ter city than most, and I have been in every city In every 
State In this Union." 

It has been said that "the worst thing about reform 
Is the reformer." You can say the same thing about 
authorship and authors, or about plumbing and plum- 

394 



UNDER PIKE'S PEAK 

bers. It is only another way of saying that the human 
element is the weak element. I have met a number of 
reformers and have come to classify them under three 
general heads. Without considering the branch of re- 
form in which they are interested, but only their char- 
acteristics as individuals, I should say that all profes- 
sional reformers might be divided as follows: First, 
zealots, or "inspired" reformers; second, cold-blooded, 
theoretical, statistical reformers; third, a small number 
of normal human beings, capable alike of feeling and 
of reasoning clearly. 

About reformers of the first type there is often some- 
thing abnormal. They are frequently of the most radi- 
cal opinions, and are likely to be impatient, intolerant, 
and suspicious of the integrity of those who do not agree 
with them. They take to the platform like ducks to 
water and their egos are likely to be very highly de- 
veloped. Reformers of the second type are repulsive, 
because reform, with them, has become mechanical; 
they measure suffering and sin with decimals, and re- 
gard their fellow men as specimens. What the re- 
former of the third class will do is more difficult to say. 
It is possible that, blowing neither hot nor cold, he will 
not accomplish so much as the others, but he can reach 
groups of persons who consider reformers of the first 
class unbalanced and those of the second inhuman. 

I have a friend who is a reformer of the third class. 
His temperate writings, surcharged with sanity and a 
sense of justice, have reached many persons who could 

395 



ABROAD AT HOME 

hardly be affected by "yellow" methods of reform. Be- 
coming deeply interested in his work, he was finally 
tempted to take the platform. One day, when he had 
come back from a lecture tour, I chanced to meet him, 
and was surprised to hear from him that, though he had 
been successful as a lecturer, he nevertheless intended 
to abandon that field of work. 

I asked him why. 

"I '11 tell you," he said. *'At first it was all right. I 
had certain things I wanted to say to people, and I said 
them. But as I went on, I began to feel my audiences 
more and more. I began to know how certain things 
I said would affect them. I began to want to affect 
them — to play upon them, see them stirred, hear them 
applaud. So, hardly realizing it at first, I began shift- 
ing my speeches, playing up certain points, not so much 
because those points were the ones which ought to be 
played up, but because of the pleasure it gave me to 
work up my listeners. Then, one night while I was 
talking, I realized what was happening to me. I was 
losing my intellectual honesty. Public speaking had 
been stealing it from me without my knowing it. Then 
and there I made up my mind to give it up. I 'm not 
going to Say it any more ; I 'm going to Write it. When 
a man is writing, other minds are not acting upon his, 
as they are when he is speaking to an audience." 

Personally, I think Judge Lindsey would be stronger 
with the more critical minds of Colorado if he, too, had 
felt this way. 

396 



UNDER PIKE'S PEAK 

A number of odd items about Denver should be men- 
tioned. 

Elitch's Garden, the city's great summer amusement 
place, is famous all through the country. It was origi- 
nally a farm, and still has a fine orchard, besides its 
orderly Coney Island features. Children go there in 
the afternoons with their nurses, and all of Denver goes 
there in the evenings when the great attraction is the 
theater with its stock company which is of a very high 
order. 

The Tabor Opera House in Denver is famous among 
theatrical people largely because of the man who built it. 
Tabor was one of Denver's most extraordinary mining 
millionaires. After he had struck it rich he determined 
to build as a monument to himself, the finest Opera 
House in the United States, and "damn the expense." 

While the building was under construction he was 
called away from the city. The story is related that 
on his return he went to see what progress had been 
made, and found mural painters at work, over the 
proscenium arch. They were painting the portrait of 
a man. 

"Who's that?" demanded Tabor. 

'^Shakespeare," the decorator informed him. 

"Shakespeare — shake hell!" responded the proprie- 
tor. "He never done nothing for Denver. Paint him 
out and put me up there." 

Though there have been no Tabors made in Denver 
in the last few years, mining has not gone out of fashion. 

397 



ABROAD AT HOME 

In the lobby of the Brown Palace Hotel my companion 
and I saw several old fellows, sitting about, looking 
neither prosperous nor busy, but always talking mines. 
A kind word, or even a pleasant glance is enough to 
set them off. Instantly their hands dive into their 
pockets and out come nuggets and samples of ore, which 
they polish upon their coat sleeves, and hold up proudly, 
turning them to catch the light. 

*'Yes, sir! I made the doggondest strike up there 
you ever saw ! It 's all on the ground. Come over here 
and look at this !" 

To which the answer is likely to be : 

''No, I have n't time." 

The Denver Club is a central rallying place for the 
successful business men of the city. It is a splendid 
club, with the best of kitchens, and cellars, and humidors. 
All over the land I have met men who had been enter- 
tained there and who spoke of the place with something 
like affection. 

One night, several weeks after we had left Denver, 
we were at the Bohemian Club in San Francisco, and fell 
to talking of Denver and her clubs. 

'Tt was in a club in Denver," one man said, "that I 
witnessed the most remarkable thing I saw in Colorado." 

"What was that?" we asked. 

"I met a former governor of the State there one 
night," he said. "We sat around the fire. Every now 
and then he would hit the very center of a cuspidor which 

398 



UNDER PIKE'S PEAK 

stood fifteen feet away. The remarkable thing about it 
was that he did n't look more than forty-five years old. 
I have always wondered how a man of that age could 
have carried his responsibility as governor, yet have 
found time to learn to spit so superbly." 



399 



CHAPTER XXXI 
HITTING A HIGH SPOT 

AN enthusiastic young millionaire, the son of a 
pioneer, determined that my companion and I 
ought to see the mountain parks. 

It was winter, and for reasons all too plainly visible 
from Denver, no automobiles had attempted the ascent 
since fall, for the mountain barrier, rearing itself ma- 
jestically to the westward, glittered appallingly with ice 
and snow. 

"We can have a try at it, anyway," said our friend. 

So, presently, in furs, and surrounded by lunch bas- 
kets and thermos bottles, we set out for the mountains 
in his large six-cylinder machine. 

Emerging from the city, and taking the macadamized 
road which leads to Golden, we had our first uninter- 
rupted view of the full sweep of that serrated mountain 
wall, visible for almost a hundred miles north of Den- 
ver, and a hundred south ; a solid, stupendous line, flash- 
ing as though the precious minerals had been coaxed out 
to coruscate in the warm surface sunshine. 

There was something operatic in that vast and splen- 
did spectacle. I felt that the mountains and the sky 
formed the back drop in a continental theater, the stage 

400 



HITTING A HIGH SPOT 

of which is made up of thousands of square miles of 
plains. 

Striking a pleasant pace we sped toward the barrier as 
though meaning to dash ourselves against it; for it 
seemed very near, and our car was like some great moth 
fascinated by the flash of ice and snow. However, as 
is usual where the air is clear and the altitude great, the 
eye is deceived as to distances in Colorado, and the foot- 
hills, which appear to be not more than three or four 
miles distant from Denver, are in reality a dozen miles 
away. 

Denver has many stock stories to illustrate that point. 
It is related that strangers sometimes start to walk to 
the mountains before breakfast, and the tale is told 
of one man who, having walked for hours, and thus 
discovered the illusory effect of the clear mountain air, 
was found undressing by a four-foot irrigation ditch, 
preparatory to swimming it, having concluded that, 
though it looked narrow, it was, nevertheless in reality 
a river. 

Nor is optical illusion regarding distances the only 
quality contained in Denver air. Denver and Colorado 
Springs are of course famous resorts for persons with 
weak lungs, but one need not have weak lungs to feel 
the tonic effect of the climate. Denver has little rain 
and much sunshine. Her winter air seems actually to 
hold in solution Colorado gold. My companion and I 
found it difficult to get to sleep at night because of the 
exhilarating effect of the air, but we would awaken in 

401 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the morning after five or six hours' slumber, feehng ab- 
normally lively. 

I spoke about that to a gentleman who was a member 
of our automobile mountain party. 

"There 's no doubt," he replied, as we bowled along, 
"that this altitude affects the nerves. Even animals feel 
it. I have bought a number of eastern show horses and 
brought them out here, and I have found that horses 
which w^ere entirely tractable in their habitual surround- 
ings, would become unmanageable in our climate. Even 
a pair of Percherons which were perfectly placid in St. 
Louis, where I got them, stepped up like hackneys when 
they reached Denver. 

'T think a lot of the agitation we have out here comes 
from the same thing. Take our passionate political 
quarreling, or our newspapers and the way they abuse 
each other. Or look at Judge Lindsey. I think the 
altitude is partly accountable for him, as well as for a 
lot of things the rest of us do. Of course it 's a good 
thing in one way : it makes us energetic ; but on the other 
hand, we are likely to have less balance than people who 
don't live a mile up in the air." 

As we talked, our car breezed toward the foothills. 
Presently we entered the mouth of a narrow canon and, 
after winding along rocky slopes, emerged upon the town 
of Golden. 

Golden, now known principally as the seat of the State 
School of Mines, used to be the capital of Colorado. 
Spread out upon a prairie the place might assume an 

402 



HITTING A HIGH SPOT 

air o£ some importance, but stationed as it is upon a slope, 
surrounded by gigantic peaks, it seems a trifling town 
clinging to the mountainside as a fly clings to a horse's 
back. 

The slope upon which Golden is situated is a com- 
paratively gentle one, but directly back of the city the 
angle changes and the surface of the world mounts 
abruptly toward the heavens, which seem to rest like 
a great coverlet upon the upland snows. 

Rivulets from the melting white above, were running 
through the streets of Golden, turning them to a sea 
of mud, through which we plowed powerfully on ''third." 
As we passed into the backyard of Golden, the mountain 
seemed to lean out over us. 

"That 's our road, up there," remarked the Denver 
gentleman who sat in the tonneau, between my com- 
panion and myself. He pointed upward, zig-zagging 
with his finger. 

We gazed at the mountainside. 

"You don't mean that little dark slanting streak like a 
wire running back and forth, do you?" asked my com- 
panion. 

"Yes, that 's it. You see they 've cut a little nick into 
the slope all the way up and made a shelf for the road 
to run on." 

"Is there any wall at the edge?" I asked. 

"No," he said. "There 's no wall yet. We may have 
that later, but you see we have just built this road." 

"Is n't there even a fence?" 

403 



ABROAD AT HOME 

"No. But it 's all right. The road is wide enough." 

Presently we reached the bottom of the road, and be- 
gan the actual ascent. 

"Is this it?" asked my companion. 

"Yes, this is it. You see the pavement Is good." 

"But I thought you said the road was wide?" 

"Well, it is ^yide — that is, for a mountain road. You 
can't expect a mountain road to be as wide as a city 
boulevard, you know." 

"But suppose we should meet somebody," I put in. 
"How would we pass ?" 

"There 's room enough to pass," said the Denver gen- 
tleman. "You 've only got to be a little careful. But 
there is no chance of our meeting any one. Most peo- 
ple would n't think of trying this road in winter because 
of the snow." 

"Do you mean that the snow makes it dangerous?" 
asked my companion. 

"Some people seem to think so," said the Denver gen- 
tleman. 

Meanwhile the gears had been singing their shrill, 
incessant song as we mounted, swiftly. My seat was 
at the outside of the road. I turned my head in the 
direction of the plains. From where I sat the edge of the 
road was invisible. I had a sense of being wafted along 
through the air with nothing but a cushion between me 
and an abyss. I leaned out a little, and looked down 
at the wheel beneath me. Then I saw that several feet 
of pavement, lightly coated with snow, intervened be- 

404 







Ai.m^nj^-' 



'Ain't Nature wonderful!" 



HITTING A HIGH SPOT 

tween the tire, and the awful edge. Beyond the edge 
was several hundred feet of sparkling air, and beyond 
the air I saw the roofs of Golden. 

One of these roofs annoyed me. I do not know the 
nature of the building it adorned. It may have been a 
church, or a school, or a town hall. I only know that 
the building had a tower, rising to an acute point from 
which a lightning rod protruded like a skewer. When 
I first caught sight of it I shuddered and turned my eyes 
upward toward the mountain. I did not like to gaze up 
at the heights which we had yet to climb, but I liked it 
better on the whole than looking down into the depths 
below. 

*' What mountain do you call this ?" I asked, trying to 
make diverting conversation. 

"Which one?" asked the Denver gentleman. 

''The one we are climbing." 

'This is just one of the foothills," he declared. 

"Oh," I said. 

"If this is a foothill," remarked my companion, "I 
suppose the Adirondacks are children's sand piles." 

"See how blue the plains are," said the Denver gentle- 
man sweeping the landscape with his arm. "People 
compare them with the sea." 

I did not wish to see how blue the plains were, but 
out of courtesy I looked. Then I turned my eyes away, 
hastily. The spacious view did not strike me in the 
sense of beauty, but in the pit of the stomach. In look- 
ing away from the plains, I tried to do so without no- 

405 



ABROAD AT HOME 

ticing the town below. I did not wish to contemplate 
that pointed tower, again. But a terrible curiosity 
drew my eyes down. Yes, there was Golden, looking 
like a toy village. And there was the tower, pointing 
up at me. I could not see the lightning rod now, but 
I knew that it was there. Again I looked up at the 
peaks. 

For a time we rode on in silence. I noticed that the 
snow on the slope beside us, and in the road, was be- 
coming deeper now, but it did not seem to daunt our 
powerful machine. Up, up we went without slackening 
our pace. 

"Look!" exclaimed the Denver gentleman after a 
time. "You can see Denver now, just over the top of 
South Table Mountain." 

Again I was forced to turn my eyes in the direction 
of the plains. Yes, there was Denver, looking like some 
dream island of Maxfield Parrish's in the sea of plain. 

I tried to look away again at once, but the Denver 
man kept pointing and insisting that I see it all. 

"South Table Mountain, over the top of which you are 
now looking," he said, "is the same hill we skirted in 
coming into Golden. We were at the bottom of it then. 
That will show you how we have climbed already." 

"We must be halfway up by now," said my companion 
hopefully. 

"Oh, no; not yet. We are only about — " There he 
broke off suddenly and clutched at the side of the ton- 
neau. Our front wheels had slipped sidewise in the 

406 



HITTING A HIGH SPOT 

snow, upon a turn, and had brought us very near the 
edge. Again something drew my eyes to Golden. It 
was no longer a toy village ; it was now a map. But the 
tower was still there. However far we drove we never 
seemed to get away from it. 

Where the brilliant sunlight lay upon the snow, it 
was melting, but in shaded places it was dry as talcum 
powder. Rounding another turn we came upon a place 
of deep shadow, where the riotous mountain winds had 
blown the dry snow into drifts. One after the other we 
could see them reaching away like white waves toward 
the next angle in the road. 

My heart leaped with joy at the sight, and as I felt 
the restraining grip of the brakes upon our wheels, I 
blessed the elements which barred our way. 

"Well," I cried to our host as the car stood still. "It 
has been a wonderful ride. I never thought we should 
get as far as this." 

"Neither did I !" exclaimed my companion rising to 
his feet. "I guess I '11 get out and stretch my legs while 
you turn around." 

"So will I," I said. 

Our host looked back at us. 

"Turn around?" he repeated. "I 'm not going to turn 
around." 

My companion measured the road with his eye. 

"It is sort of narrow for a turn, isn't it?" he said. 
"What will you do — back down?" 

"Back nothing!" said our host. "I 'm going through." 

407 



ABROAD AT HOME 

The pioneer in him had spoken. His jaw was set. 
The joy that I had felt ebbed suddenly away. I seemed 
to feel it leaking throug-h the soles of my feet. We 
had stopped in the shadow. It was cold there and the 
wind was blowing hard. I did not like that place, but 
little as I liked it, I fairly yearned to stop there. 

I heard the gears click as they meshed. The car 
leaped forward, struck the drift, bounded into it with 
a drunken, slewing motion, penetrated for some distance 
and finally stopped, her headlights buried in the snow. 

Again I heard a click as our host shifted to reverse. 
Then, with a furious spinning of wheels, which cast 
the dry snow high in air, we made a bouncing, back- 
ward leap and cleared the drift, but only to charge it 
again. 

This time we managed to get through. Nor did we 
stop at that. Having passed the first drift, we retained 
our momentum and kept on through those that fol- 
lowed, hitting them as a power dory hits succeeding 
waves in a choppy sea, churning our way along with a 
rocking, careening, crazy motion, now menaced by great 
boulders at the inside of the road, now by the deadly 
drop at the outside, until at last we managed, somehow, 
to navigate the turning, after which we stopped in a 
place comparatively clear of snow. 

Our host turned to us with a smile. 

"She 's a good old snow-boat, is n't she?" he said. 

With great solemnity my companion and I admitted 
that she was. 

408 



HITTING A HIGH SPOT 

Even the Denver gentleman who occupied the tonneau 
with us, seemed somewhat shaken. 

"Of course the snow wiU be worse farther up," he said 
to our host. ''Do you think it is worth going on?" 

"Of course it is," our host rephed. "I want these 
boys to see the main range of the Rockies. That 's 
what we came up for, is n't it ?" 

"Yes," said my companion, "but we would n't want 
you to spoil your car on our account." 

It was an unfortunate remark. 

"Spoil her!" cried our host. "Spoil this machine? 
You don't know her. You have n't seen what she can 
do, yet. Just wait until we hit a real drift !" 

The cigar which I had been smoking when I left Den- 
ver was still in my mouth. It had gone out long since, 
but I had been too much engrossed with other things 
to notice it. Instead of relighting it, I had been turn- 
ing it over and over between my teeth, and now in an 
emotional moment, I chewed at it so hard that it sagged 
down against my chin. I removed it from my mouth, 
and tossed it over the edge. It cleared the road and 
sailed out into space, down, down, down, turning over 
and over in the air, as it went. And as I watched its 
evolutions, my blood chilled, for I thought to myself 
that the body of a falling man would turn in just that 
way — that my body would be performing similar aerial 
evolutions, should our car slew off the road in the course 
of some mad charge against a drift. 

I was by this time very definitely aware that I had 

409 



ABROAD AT HOME 

my fill of winter motoring in the mountains. The mere 
reluctance I had felt as we began to climb had now de- 
veloped into a passionate desire to desist. I am no great 
pedestrian. Under ordinary circumstances the idea of 
climbing a mountain on foot would never occur to me. 
But now, since I could not turn back, since I must go 
to the top to satisfy my host, I fairly yearned to walk 
there. Indeed, I would have gladly crawled there on 
my hands and knees, through snowdrifts, rather than 
to have proceeded farther in that touring car. 

Obviously, however, craft was necessary. 

'T believe I '11 get out and limber up a little," I said, 
rising from my seat. 

My companions of the tonneau seemed to be of the 
same mind. All three of us alighted in the snow. 

*'How far is it to the top?" I asked our host. 

*'A couple of miles," he said. 

"Is that all ?" I replied. "Could n't we walk it, then ?" 

I was touched by the avidity with which my two com- 
panions seized on the suggestion. Only our host ob- 
jected. 

"What's the matter?" he demanded in an injured 
tone. "Don't you think my car can make it? If you '11 
just get in again you '11 soon see!" 

"Heavens, no!" I answered. "That's not it. Of 
course we knozv your car can do it." 

"Yes ; oh, yes, of course !" the other two chimed in. 

"All I was thinking of," I added, "was the exercise." 

"That 's it," my companion cried. "Exercise. We 

410 



HITTING A HIGH SPOT 

have n't had a bit of exercise since we left New York." 

'T need it, too!" put in the Denver man. "My wife 
says I 'm getting fat." 

''Oh, if it 's exercise you want," said our host, 'T 'm 
with you." 

Even the spirits of the chauffeur seemed to rise as 
his employer alighted. 

'T think I had better stay with the car, sir," he said. 

"All right, all right," said our host indifferently. 
"You can be turning her around. We '11 be back in a 
couple of hours or so." 

The chauffeur looked at the edge. 

"Well," he said, "I don't know but what the exercise 
will do me good, too. I guess I '11 come along if you 
don't mind, sir." 

On foot we could pick our way, avoiding the larger 
drifts, so that, for the most part, we merely trudged 
through snow a foot deep. But it was uphill work in 
the sun, and before long overcoats were removed and 
cached at the roadside, weighted down against the wind 
with stones. Now and then we left the road and took 
a short cut up the mountainside, wading through drifts 
which were sometimes armpit deep and joining the road 
again where it doubled back at a higher elevation. Pres- 
ently our coats came off, then our waistcoats, until at 
last all five of us were in our shirts, making a strange 
picture in such a wintry landscape. 

Now that the dread of skidding was removed I be- 
gan to enjoy myself, taking keen delight in the marvel- 

411 



ABROAD AT HOME 

ous blue plains spread out everywhere to the eastward, 
and inhaling great drafts of effervescent air. 

When we had struggled upward for perhaps two 
hours we left the road and assailed a little peak, from the 
top of which our host believed the main range of the 
Rockies would be visible. The slope was rather steep, 
but the ground beneath the snow was fairly smooth, 
giving us moderately good footing. By making trans- 
verse paths w^e zigzagged without much difficulty to the 
top, which was sharp, like the backbone of some gigantic 
animal. 

I must admit that I had not been so anxious to see 
the main range as my Denver friends had been to have 
me see it. It did not seem to me that any mountain 
spectacle could be much finer than that presented by 
the glittering wall as seen from Denver. I had ex- 
pected to be disappointed at the sight of the main range, 
and I am glad that I expected that, because it made all 
the greater the thrill which I felt when, on topping the 
hill, I saw what was beyond. 

I do not believe that any experience in life can give 
the ordinary man — the man who is not a real explorer 
of new places — the sense of actual discovery and ol 
great achievement, which he may attain by laboring up 
a stope and looking over it at a vast range of mountains 
glittering, peak upon peak, into the distance. The sen- 
sation is overwhelming. It fills one with a strange 
kind of exaltation, like that which is produced by great 
music played by a splendid orchestra. The golden air, 

412 



%A 





2 c 







\ \ 



HITTING A HIGH SPOT 

vibrating and shimmering, is like the tremolo of violins ; 
the shadows in the abysses are like the deep throbbing 
notes of violoncellos and double basses; while the great 
peaks, rising in their might and majesty, suggest the 
surge and rumble of pipe organs echoing to the vault of 
heaven. 

I had often heard that, to some people, certain kinds 
of music suggest certain colors. Here, in the silence 
of the mountains, I understood that thing for the first 
time, for the vast forms of those jewel-encrusted hills 
seemed to give off a superb symphonic song — a song 
wdth an air which, when I let my mind drift with it, 
seemed to become definite, but which, when I tried to 
follow it, melted into vague, elusive harmonies. 

There is no place in the world where Man can get 
along for more than two or three minutes at a time with- 
out thinking of himself. Everything with which he 
comes in contact suggests him to himself. Nothing is 
too small, nothing too stupendous, to make man think 
of man. If he sees an ant he thinks: "That, in its 
humble way, is a little replica of me, doing my work." 
But when he looks upon a mountain range he thinks 
more salutary thoughts, for if his thoughts about him- 
self are ever humble, they will be humble then. In- 
deed, it would be like man to say that that was the pur- 
pose with which mountains were made — to humble him. 
For it is man's pleasure to think that everything in the 
universe was created with some definite relation to him- 
self. 

413 



ABROAD AT HOME 

However that may be, it is man's habit, when he looks 
upon the mountains, to endeavor to make up for the long 
vainglorious years with a brief but complete orgy of 
self-abnegation. And that, of course, is a good thing 
for him, although it seems a pity that he cannot spread 
it thinner and thereby make it last him longer. But 
man does not like to take his humility that way. He 
prefers to take it like any other sickening medicine, gulp- 
ing it down in one big draft, and getting it over with. 
That is the reason man can never bear to stay for any 
length of time upon a mountain top. Up there he finds 
out what he really is, and for man to find that out is, 
naturally, painful. 

As he looks at the mountains the ego, which is 99 per 
cent, of him, begins to shrivel up. He may not feel it 
at first. Probably he does n't. Very likely he begins 
by writing his own name in the eternal snows, or scratch- 
ing his initials on a rock. But presently he gazes off 
into space and remarks with the Poet Towne: "Ain't 
Nature wonderful!" And, of course, after that he be- 
gins to think of himself again, saying with a great sense 
of discovery: "What a little thing I am!" Then, as 
his ego shrinks farther, the orgy of humility begins. 

"What am I," he cries, "in the eyes of the eternal 
hills? I am relatively unimportant! By George, I 
should n't be surprised if I were a miserable atom ! Yes, 
that 's what I am ! I am a frail, wretched thing, created 
but to be consumed. My life is but a day. I am a 
poor, two-legged nonentity, trotting about the surface 

414 



HITTING A HIGH SPOT 

of an enormous ball. I am filled with egotism and self- 
interest. I call myself civilized — and why? Because 
I have learned to make sounds through my mouth, and 
have assigned certain meanings to these sounds ; because 
I have learned to mark down certain symbols, to repre- 
sent these sounds; and because, with my sounds and 
symbols, I can maintain a ragged interchange of ragged 
thought with other men, getting myself, for the most 
part, beautifully misunderstood. 

"Of what else is my life composed? Of the search 
for something I call 'pleasure' and something else I call 
'success,' which is represented by piles of little yellow 
metal disks that I designate by the silly-sounding word, 
'money.' I spend six days in the week in search of 
money, and on the seventh day I relax and read the 
Sunday newspapers, or put on my silk hat and go to 
church, where I call God's attention to myself in every 
way I can, praying to Him with prayers which have to 
be written for me because I have n't brains enough to 
make a good prayer of my own ; singing hymns to Him 
in a voice which ought never to be raised in song; tell- 
ing Him that I know He watches over me; putting a 
little metal disk, of small denomination, in the plate for 
Him ; then putting on my shiny hat again — which I know 
pleases Him very much — going home and eating too 
much dinner." 

That is the way man thinks about himself upon a 
mountain top. Naturally he can only stand it for a little 
while before his contracting ego begins to shriek in pain. 

415 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Then man says: "I have enjoyed the view. I will 
note the fact in the visitors' book if there happens to be 
one, after which I will retire from this high elevation to 
the world below." 

Going down the mountain he begins to say to him- 
self: "What wonderful thoughts I have been thinking 
up there! I have had thoughts which very few other 
men are capable of thinking ! I have a remarkable mind 
if I only take the time to use it!" 

So, as he goes down, his ego keeps on swelling up 
again until it not only reaches its normal size, but be- 
comes larger than ever, because the man now believes 
that, in addition to all he was before, he has become a 
philosopher. 

'T must write a book!" he says to himself. "I must 
give these remarkable ideas of mine to the world !" 

And, as you see, he sometimes does it. 



416 



y-^iP^^rr-Tr 




The homes of C i.l.rad.i .Springs really explain the place and the 
society is as cosmopolitan a3 the architecture 



CHAPTER XXXII 
COLORADO SPRINGS 

IN a certain city that I visited upon my travels, I met 
one night at dinner, one of those tall, pink-cheeked, 
slim-legged young polo-playing Englishmen, who 
proceeded to tell me in his positive, British way, exactly 
what the United States amounted to. He said New 
York was ripping. He said San Francisco was ripping. 
He said American girls were ripping. 

*'But," said he, "there are just two really civilized 
places between your Atlantic and Pacific coasts." 

The idea entertained me. I asked which places he 
meant. 

"Chicago," he said, "and Colorado Springs." 

"But Colorado Springs is a little bit of a place, is n't 
it?" I asked him. 

"About thirty thousand." 

"Why is it so especially civilized?" 

"It just is, y' know," he answered. "There 's polo 
there." 

"But polo does n't make civilization," I said. 

"Oh, yes, it does," he insisted. "I mean to say wher- 
ever you find polo you find good clubs and good society 
and — usually — good tea." 

This, and further rumors of a like nature, plus some 

417 



ABROAD AT HOME 

pleasant letters of introduction, caused my companion 
and me to remove ourselves, one afternoon, from Den- 
ver to the vaunted seat of civilization, some miles to the 
south. 

Colorado Springs is somewhat higher than Denver 
and seems to nestle closer to the mountains. The mo- 
ment you alight from the train and see the park, facing 
the station and the pleasant fagade of the Antlers Hotel, 
beyond, you feel the peculiar charm of the little city. 
It is well laid-out, with very wide streets, very good 
public buildings and office buildings, and really remark- 
able homes. 

The homes of Colorado Springs really explain the 
place. They are of every variety of architecture, and 
are inhabited by a corresponding variety of people. 
You will see half-timbered English houses, built by 
Englishmen and Scots; Southern colonial houses built 
by people from the South Atlantic States ; New England 
colonial houses built by families who have migrated 
from the regions of Boston and New York; one-story 
houses built by people from Hawaii, and a large assort- 
ment of other houses ranging from Queen Anne to Cape 
Cod cottages, and from Italian villas to Spanish pal- 
aces. There is even the Grand Trianon at Broadmoor, 
and an amazing Tudor castle at Glen Eyre. 

The society is as cosmopolitan as the architecture. 
It has been drawn with perfect impartiality from the 
well-to-do class in all parts of the country and has been 
assembled in this charming garden town with, for the 

418 



COLORADO SPRINGS 

most part, a common reason — to fight against tuber- 
culosis. This does not mean, of course, that the ma- 
jority of people in Colorado Springs are victims of tuber- 
culosis, but only that, in many instances, families have 
moved there because of the affliction of one member. 

I say "affliction." Literally, I suppose the word is 
justified. But perhaps the most striking thing about 
society in Colorado Springs is its apparent freedom from 
affliction. One goes to the most delightful dinner par- 
ties, there, in the most delightful houses, and meets the 
most delightful people. Every one seems very gay. 
Every one looks well. Yet one knows that there are 
certain persons present who are out there for their 
health. The question is, which? It is impossible to 
tell. 

In the case of one couple I met, I decided that the wife 
who was slender and rather pale, had been the cause of 
migration from the East. But before I left, the stocky, 
ruddy husband told me, in the most cheerful manner 
that he had arrived there twenty years before with "six 
months to live." That is the way it is out there. There 
is no feeling of depression. There is no air of, "Shh! 
Don't speak of it!" Tuberculosis is taken quite as a 
matter of course, and is spoken of, upon occasion, with 
a lightness and freedom which is likely to surprise the 
visitor. They even give it what one man designated as 
a "pet name," calling it "T. B." 

Club life in Colorado Springs is highly developed. 
The El Paso Club is not merely a good club for such a 

419 



ABROAD AT HOME 

small city, but would be a very good club anywhere. 
One has only to penetrate as far as the cigar stand to 
discover that — for a club may always be known by the 
cigars it keeps. So, too, with the Cheyenne Mountain 
Country Club at Broadmoor, a suburb of the Springs. It 
is n't one of those small-town country clubs, in which, 
after ringing vainly for the waiter, you go out to the 
kitchen and find him for yourself, in his shirtsleeves and 
minus a collar. Nor, when he puts in his appearance, is 
he wearing a spotted alpaca coat that does n't fit. With- 
out being in the least pretentious, it is a real country 
club, run for men and women w^ho know what a real 
club is. 

When you sit at luncheon at the large round table in 
the men's cafe you may find yourself between a famous 
polo-player from Meadowbrook, and a bronzed young 
ranch-owner, who will tell you that cattle rustling still 
goes on in his section of the country. The latter you 
will take for a perfect product of the West, a ''gentle- 
man cowboy," from a novel. But presently you will 
learn that he is a member of that almost equally fictitious 
thing, an "old New York family," that he has been in 
the West but a year or two, and that he was in ''Tark's 
class" at Princeton. So on around the table. One man 
has just arrived from Paris ; another from Honolulu, or 
the Philippines, or China or Japan. And when, as we 
were sitting there, a man came in whom I had met in 
Rome ten years before, I said to myself: This is not 
life. It is the beginning of a short story by some dis- 

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COLORADO SPRINGS 

ciple of Mrs. Wharton : A group of cosmopolitans seated 
around a table in a club. Casual mention of Bombay, 
Buda-Pesth and Singapore. Presently some man will 
flick his cigarette ash and say, "By the way, De Courcey, 
what ever became of the queer little chap we used to see 
at the officer's mess in Simla?" Whereupon De Cour- 
cey, late of the Lancers, and second son of Lord Thus- 
andso, will light a fresh Corona and recount, according 
to the accepted formula, the story of The Queer Little 
Chap. 

I could even imagine the illustrations for the story, 
They would be by Wenzell, and would show us there, in 
the club, like a group of sleek Greek statues, clothed in 
full afternoon regalia of the most unbelievable smooth- 
ness — looking, in short, not at all like ourselves, or any- 
body else. 

However, the story of The Queer Little Chap was not 
told. That is the trouble with trying to live short 
stories. You can get them started, sometimes, but they 
never work out. If the setting is all right, the story 
somehow will not ''break," whereas, on the other hand, 
when the surroundings are absolutely wrong, when the 
wrong people are present, when the conditions are ut- 
terly impossible, your short story will break violently 
and without warning, and will very likely cover you with 
spots. The trouble is that life, in its more fragmentary 
departments, lacks what we call ''form" and "composi- 
tion." There is something amateurish about it. Nine 
editors out of ten would reject a short story written by 

421 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the Hand of Fate, on this ground, and would probably 
advise Fate to go and take a course in short-story-writ- 
ing at some university. No ; Fate has not the short story 
gift. She writes novels — rather long and rambling, 
most of them, like those of De Morgan or Romaine Rol- 
land. But even her novels are not popular. People say 
they are too long. They can't be bothered reading novels 
which consume a whole lifetime. Besides, Fate seldom 
supplies a happy ending, and that 's what people want, 
now-a-days. So, though Fate's novels are given away, 
they have no vogue. 

Having somehow digressed from clubs to authorship 
I may perhaps be pardoned for wandering still further 
from my trail here to mention Andy Adams. 

A long time ago, ex-Governor Hunt expressed lack 
of faith in the future of Colorado Springs because, at 
that time, there was not much water to be found there, 
and further because the town had "too many writers of 
original poetry." So far as I could judge, from a brief 
visit, things have changed. There is plenty of water, 
and I did not meet a single poet. However, I did meet 
an author, and he is a real one. Andy Adams' card 
proclaims him author, but more than this, his books do, 
also. Himself a former cowboy, he writes cowboy 
stories which prove that cowboy stories need not be 
as false, and as maudlinly romantic as most cowboy 
stories manage to be. You don't have to know the 
plains to know that Mr. Adams' tales are true, any 
more than you have to know anatomy to understand 

422 



COLORADO SPRINGS 

that a man can't stand without a backbone. Truth is 
the backbone of Mr. Adams' writings, and the body of 
them has that rare kind of beauty which may, perhaps, 
be Hkened to the body of some cowboy — some perfect 
physical specimen from Mr. Adams' own pages. 

I have not read all his books, and the only reason 
why I have not is that I have not yet had time. But so 
far as I have read I have not found one false note in 
them. I have not come upon a 'lone horseman" rid- 
ing through the gulch at eventide. I have not encoun- 
tered the daughter of an eastern millionaire who has 
ridden out to see the sunset. Nor have I stumbled on 
a romantic meeting or a theatrical rescue. 

So far as I know, Mr. Adams' book 'The Log of a 
Cowboy," is preeminently the classic of the plains. One 
of its greatest qualities is that of ceaseless movement. 
Three thousand head of cattle are driven through those 
chapters, from the Mexican frontier to the Canada bor- 
der, and those cattle travel with a flow as irresistible as 
the unrelenting flow of De Quincey's Tartar tribe. 

The author is one of those absolutely basic things, a 
natural story teller, and the fine simplicity of his writ- 
ing springs not from education ("All the schooling 
I ever had I picked up at a cross-roads country school 
house"), not from an academic knowledge of "litera- 
ture," but from primary qualities in his own nature, 
and the strong, ingenuous outlook of his own two eyes. 

Mr. Henry Russell Wray tells of a request from east- 
ern publishers for a brief sketch of Adams' life. He 

423 



ABROAD AT HOME 

asked Adams to write about two hundred words about 
himself, as though deahng with another being. The 
next day he received this : 

A native of Indiana ; went to Texas during his youth ; worked 
over ten years on cattle ranches and on the trail, rising from 
common hand on the latter to a foreman. Quit cattle fifteen 
years ago, following business and mining occupations since. 
When contrasted with the present generation is just beginning to «* 
realize that the old days were romantic, though did not think so 
when sitting a saddle sixteen to twenty-four hours a day in all 
kinds of weather. His insight into cattle life was not obtained 
from the window of a Pullman car, but close to the soil and from 
the hurricane deck of a Texas horse. Even to-day is a better 
cowman than writer, for he can yet rope and tie down a steer 
with any of the boys, though the loop of his rope may settle on 
the wrong foot of the rhetoric occasionally. He is of Irish and 
Scotch parentage. Forty-three years of age, six feet in height 
and weighs 210 pounds. 

Though I met Mr. Adams at Colorado Springs, I shall, 
for obvious reasons, let my description of him rest at 
that. 

When writing of clubs I should have mentioned the 
Cooking Club, which is one of the most unique little clubs 
of the country. The fifteen members of this club are 
the gourmets of Colorado Springs — not merely passive 
gourmets who like to have good things set before them, 
but active ones who know how to prepare good things 
as well as eat them. Every little while, throughout the 
season, the Cooking Club gives dinners, to which each 
member may invite a guest or two. Each takes his turn 

424 



COLORADO SPRINGS 

in acting as host, his duties upon this occasion being to 
ch-aw up the menu, supply materials, appoint members 
to prepare certain courses, and, wearing the full regalia 
of a chef, superintend the preparation of the meal, which 
is cooked entirely by men belonging to the club. Wine 
is not served at Cooking Club dinners, the official bever- 
age being the club Rum Brew, which has a considerable 
local reputation, and is everywhere pronounced adequate. 
Not a few of the members learned to cook in the course 
of prospecting tours in the mountains, and the Easterner 
who, with this fact in mind, attends a Cooking Club din- 
ner is led to revise, immediately, certain preconceived 
ideas of the hard life of the prospector. No man has 
a hard life who can cook himself such dishes. In- 
deed, one is forced to the conclusion that Colorado is 
full of undiscovered mines, which would have been un- 
covered long ago, were it not that prospectors go up 
into the mountains for the primary purpose of cooking 
themselves the most delightful meals, and that mining is 
— as indeed it should be — a mere side issue. For myself, 
while I have no taste for the hardy life of the moun- 
taineer, I would gladly become a prospector, even if it 
were guaranteed in advance that I should discover noth- 
ing, providing that Eugene P. Shove would go along 
with me and make the biscuits. 

Aside from its clubs Colorado Springs has all the 
other things which go to the making of a pleasant city. 
The Burns Theater is a model of what a theater should 
be. The Antlers Hotel would do credit to the shores 

425 



ABROAD AT HOME 

of Lake Lucerne. Where the "antlers" part of it comes 
in, I am unable to say, but as nothing else was lacking, 
from the kitchen, down stairs, to Pike's Peak looming 
up in the back yard, I have no complaint to make. 

I suppose that every one who has heard of Colorado 
Springs at all, associates it with the famous Garden of 
the Gods. 

Before I started on my travels I was aware of the 
fact that the two great natural wonders of the East are 
Niagara Falls and the insular New Yorker. I knew that 
the great, gorgeous, glittering galaxy of American won- 
ders was, however, in the West, but the location and 
character of them was somewhat vague in my mind. 
I knew, of course, that Pike's Peak was a large moun- 
tain. I knew that the giant redwoods were in Cali- 
fornia. But for the rest, I had the Grand Caiion, the 
Royal Gorge, and the Garden of the Gods associated in 
my mind together as rival attractions. I do not know 
why this was so, excepting that I had been living on 
Manhattan Island, where information is notoriously 
scarce. 

Now, though I saw the Royal Gorge, though I rode 
through it in the cab of a locomotive, with my hair 
standing on end, and though I found it "as advertised," 
I have no idea of trying to describe it, more than to say 
that it is a great cleft in the pink rocks through which 
run a river and a railroad, and that how the latter 
managed to keep out of the former was a constant source 
of wonder to me. 

426 



COLORADO SPRINGS 

As for the Grand Canon of the Colorado, it affects 
those who behold it with a kind of literary asthma. 
They desire to describe it; some try, passionately; but 
they only wheeze and look as though they might ex- 
plode. Since it is generally admitted that no one who 
has seen it can describe it, the task would manifestly de- 
volve upon some one who has not seen it, and that re- 
quirement is filled by me. I have not seen it. I am 
.not impressed by it at all. I am able to speak of it 
with coherence and restraint. But even that I shall not 
do. 

With the Garden of the Gods it is different. The 
place irritated me. For if ever any spot was outrage- 
ously overnamed, it is that one. As a little park in the 
Catskills it might be all well enough, but as a natural 
wonder in the Rocky Mountains, with Pike's Peak hang- 
ing overhead, it is a pale pink joke. If I had my way I 
should take its wonder-name away from it, for the name 
is too fine to waste, and a thousand spots in Colorado are 
more worthy of it. 

The entrance to the place, between two tall, rose- 
colored sandstone rocks may, perhaps, be called impos- 
ing; the rest of it might better be described as imposi- 
tion. Guides will take you through, and they will do 
their utmost, as guides always do, to make you imagine 
that you are really seeing something. They will point 
out inane formations in the sandstone rock, and will 
attempt to make you see that these are ''pictures." They 
will show you the Kissing Camels, the Bear and Seal, 

427 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the Buffalo, the Bride and Groom, the Preacher, the 
Scotsman, Punch and Judy, the Washerwoman, and 
other rock forms, sculptured by Nature mto shapes more 
or less suggesting the various objects mentioned. But 
what if they do? To look at such accidentals is a pas- 
time about as intelligent as looking for pictures in the 
moon, or in the patterns of the paper on your wall. As 
nearly as Nature can be altogether silly she has been 
silly here, and I think that only silly people will succeed 
in finding fascination in the place — the more so since 
Colorado Springs is a prohibition town. 

The story of prohibition there is curious. In 1870, 
N. C. Meeker, Agricultural Editor of the New York 
''Tribune," under Horace Greeley, started a colony in 
Colorado, bringing a number of settlers from the East, 
and naming the place Greeley. With a view to elimi- 
nating the roughness characteristic of frontier towns 
in those days, Mr. Meeker made Greeley a prohibition 
colony. 

When, a year after, General William J. Palmer and 
his associates started to build the Denver & Rio Grande 
Railroad from Denver to Colorado Springs, a land com- 
pany was formed, subsidiary to the railway project, 
and desert property was purchased on the present site 
of the Springs. The town was then laid out and the 
land retailed to individuals of "good moral character 
and strict, temperate habits." 

In each deed given by the land company there was in- 

428 



COLORADO SPRINGS 

corporated an anti-liquor clause, whereby, In the event 
of intoxicating liquors being "manufactured, sold or 
otherwise disposed of in any place of public resort on 
the premises," the deed should become void and the 
property revert to the company. Shortly after the for- 
mation of the colony the validity of this clause was 
tested. The suit was finally carried to the United States 
Supreme Court, where the rights of the company, under 
the prohibition clause, were upheld. 

General Palmer, later, in discussing the history of 
Colorado Springs, explained that the prohibitory clause 
was not inserted in the deeds for moral reasons, but 
that "the aim was intensely practical — to create a habi- 
table and successful town." 

The General and his associates had had ample ex- 
perience of new western railroad towns, and wished to 
eliminate the disagreeable features of such towns from 
Colorado Springs. Even then, though the prohibition 
movement had not been fairly launched in this country 
these practical men recognize the fact that Meeker had 
recognized; namely that with saloons, dance halls and 
gambling places, gunfighting and lynchings went hand 
in hand. 

.It is recorded that the restriction seemed to work 
against the town at first, but, on the other hand, such 
growth as came was substantial, and Colorado Springs 
attracted a better class of settlers than the wide open 
towns nearby. The wisdom of this arrangement is 

429 



ABROAD AT HOME 

amply proven, to-day, by a comparison of Colorado 
Springs with the neighboring town of Colorado City, 
which has not had prohibition. 

Even before Colorado Springs existed. General Pal- 
mer had fallen in love with the place and determined 
that he would some day have a home at the foot of the 
mountains in that neighborhood. In the early seventies 
he purchased a superb canon a few miles west of the 
city, and the Tudor Castle which he built there, and 
which he named Glen Eyrie, because of the eagles' nests 
on the walls of his canon, remains to-day one of the most 
remarkable houses on this continent. 

Every detail of the house as it stands, and every item 
in the history of its construction expresses the force and 
originality which were such strong attributes of its late 
proprietor. 

The General was an engineer. In the Civil War he 
was colonel of the 15th Pennsylvania Cavalry, and was 
breveted a general. After the war he went into the 
West and became a railroad builder. Evidently he was 
one of those men, typical of his time, who seem to have 
had a craving to condense into one lifetime the experi- 
ences and achievements of several. He was, so to 
speak, his own ancestor and his own descendant; there 
were, in effect, three generations of him: soldier, rail- 
road builder, and landed baron. In his castle at Glen 
Eyrie one senses very strongly this baronial quality. 
Clearly the General could not be content with a mere 
modern house. He wanted a castle, and above all, an 

430 



COLORADO SPRINGS 

old castle. And, as Colorado is peculiarly free of old 
castles, he had to build one for himself. That is 
what he did, and the superb initiative of the man is 
again reflected in the means he used. The house must 
be of old lichen-covered stone, but, being already past 
middle age, the General could not wait on Nature. 
Therefore he caused the whole region to be scoured for 
flat, weathered stones which could be cut for his pur- 
pose. These he transported to his glen, where they were 
carefully cut and set in place, so that the moment the 
new wall was up it was an old wall. Finding the flat 
stones was easy, however, compared with finding those 
presenting a natural right angle, for the corners of the 
house. Nevertheless, all were ultimately discovered 
and laid, and the desired result was attained. After 
the house was done the General thought the roof lacked 
just the proper note of color, so he caused it to be torn 
off, and replaced with tiles from an old church in Eng- 
land. 

Perhaps the most splendid thing about the place is 
an enormous hall, paneled in oak, with a gallery and 
a beamed barrel ceiling, but there are other features 
which make the house unusual. On the roof is a great 
Krupp bell, which can be heard for miles, and which 
was used to call the General's guests home for meals. 
There is a power plant, a swimming pool, a complicated 
device for recording meteorological conditions in the 
mountains. And of course there are fireplaces in which 
great logs were burned; yet there are no chimneys on 

431 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the house. The General did not want chimneys issuing 
smoke into his caiion, so he simply did not have them. 
Instead, he constructed a tunnel which runs up the moun- 
tainside behind the house and takes care of the smoke, 
emitting it at an unseen point, far above. 

Meanwhile the General played Santa Glaus to Colo- 
rado Springs, giving her parks and boulevards. One 
day, while riding on his place, he was thrown from his 
horse and a vertebra was fractured, with the result that 
he was permanently prostrated. After that he lay for 
some time like a wounded eagle in his eyrie, his mind 
as active as ever. He was still living in 1907, when 
the time for the annual reunion of his old regiment came 
around. Unable to go East, he invited the remaining 
veterans to come to him by special train, as his guests. 
So they came — the remnants of that old cavalry regi- 
ment, and passed in review, for the last time, before 
their Golonel, lying helpless with a broken neck. 

In its mountain setting, with the pink sandstone cliffs 
rising abruptly behind it, this castle of the General's 
is one of the most dramatic homes I have ever seen. 
There is a superb austerity about it, which makes it 
very different from the large homes of Broadmoor, at 
the other side of Colorado Springs. As I have already 
mentioned, one of these is a replica of the Grand Tri- 
anon; others are Elizabethan and Tudor, and many of 
them are very fine, but the house of houses at Colorado 
Springs is "El Pomar," the residence of the late Ashton 
H. Potter, I do not know a house in the United State;? 

432 




On the road to Cripple Creek — We were always turning, always turning 
upward 



i 



COLORADO SPRINGS 

which fits its setting better than this one, or which is a 
more perfect thing from every point of view. It is a 
one-story building of Spanish architecture — a style 
which, to my mind, fits better than any other, the sort of 
landscape in which plains and mountains meet. Houses 
as elaborate as the Grand Trianon, always seem to me to 
lend themselves best to a rather formal, park-like country 
which is flat, or nearly so; while Elizabethan and 
adapted Tudor houses of the kind one sees at Broad- 
moor, seem to cry out for English lawns, and great lush- 
growing trees to soften the hard lines of roof and gable. 
Such houses may be set in rolling country with good 
efifect, but in the face of the vast mountain range which 
dominates this neighborhood, the most elaborate archi- 
tecture is so completely dwarfed as to seem almost ridic- 
ulous. Architecture cannot compete with the Rocky 
Mountains ; the best thing it can do is to submit to them : 
to blend itself into the picture as unostentatiously as pos- 
sible. And that is what "El Pomar" does. 



433 



CHAPTER XXXIII 
CRIPPLE CREEK 

ONE day, during our stay at Colorado Springs, 
we were invited to take a trip to Cripple Creek. 
Driving to the station a friend, a resident of 
the Springs, pointed out to me a little clay hillock, beside 
the road. 

"That," he said, "is what we call Mount Washing- 
ton." 

'T don't see the resemblance," I remarked. 

"Well," he explained, "the top of that little hump has 
an elevation of about six thousand three hundred feet, 
which is exactly the height of Mount Washington. 
You see our mountains, out here, begin where yours, in 
the East, leave off." 

Presently, on the little train, bound for Cripple Creek, 
the fact was further demonstrated. I had never imag- 
ined that anything less than a cog-road could ascend a 
grade so steep. All the way the grade persisted. Never 
had I seen such a railroad, either for steepness or for 
sinuosity. The train crawled slowly along ledges cut 
into the mountain-sides, now burrowing through an ob- 
struction, now creeping from one mountain to another 
on a spindly bridge of the most shocking height, below 
which a wild torrent dashed through a rocky caiion; 

434 



CRIPPLE CREEK 

now slipping out upon a sky-high terrace commanding a 
view of hundreds of square miles of plains, now wind- 
ing its way gingerly about dizzy cliffs which seemed to 
lean out over chasms, into which one looked with admir- 
ing terror ; now coming out upon the other side, the main 
chain of the Rockies was revealed a hundred miles to the 
westward, glittering superbly with eternal ice and snow^ 
It is an unbelievable railroad — the Cripple Creek Short 
Line. It travels fifty miles to make what, in a straight 
line, would be eighteen, and if there is, on the entire sys- 
tem, a hundred yards of track without a turn, I did not 
see the place. We were always turning; always turn- 
ing upward. We would go into a tunnel and presently 
emerge at a point which seemed to be directly above the 
place where we had entered ; and at times our windings, 
our doublings back, our writhings, were conducted in 
so limited an area that I began to fear our train would 
get tied in a knot and be unable to proceed. 

However, we did get to Cripple Creek, and for all its 
mountain setting, and all the three hundred millions of 
gold that it has yielded in the last twenty years or so, 
it is one of the most depressing places in the world. 
Its buildings run from shabbiness to downright ruin; 
its streets are ill paved, and its outlying districts are a 
horror of smokestacks, ore-dumps, shaft-houses, reduc- 
tion-plants, gallows-frames and squalid shanties, situ- 
ated in the mud. It seemed to me that Cripple Creek 
must be the most awful looking little city in the world, 
but I was informed that, as mining camps go, it is un- 

435 



ABROAD AT HOME 

usually presentable, and later I learned for myself that 
that is true. 

Cripple Creek is not only above the timber-line; it is 
above the cat-line. I mean this literally. Domestic 
cats cannot live there. And many human beings are af- 
fected by the altitude. I was. I had a headache; my 
breath was short, and upon the least exertion my heart 
did flip-flops. Therefore I did not circulate about the 
town excepting within a radius of a few blocks of the 
station. That, however, was enough. 

After walking up the main street a little way, I turned 
off into a side street lined with flimsy buildings, half of 
them tumbledown and abandoned. Turning into an- 
other street I came upon a long row of tiny one story 
houses, crowded close together in a block. Some of 
them were empty, but others showed signs of being oc- 
cupied. And instead of a number, the door of each one 
bore a name, "Clara," "Louise," "Lina," and so on, 
down the block. For a time there was not a soul in 
sight as I walked slowly down that line of box-stall 
houses. Then, far ahead, I saw a woman come out of 
a doorway. She wore a loose pink wrapper and carried 
a pitcher in her hand. I watched her cross the street 
and go into a dingy building. Then the street was 
empty again. I walked on slowly. As I passed one 
doorway it opened suddenly and a man came out — a 
shabby man with a drooping mustache. He did not 
look at me as he passed. The window-shade of the crib 
from which he had come went up as I moved by. I 

436 



CRIPPLE CREEK 

looked at the window, and as I did so, the curtains 
parted and the face of a negress was pressed against the 
pane, grinning at me with a knowing, sickening grin. 

I passed on. From another window a white woman 
with very black hair and eyes, and cheeks of a light 
orchid-shade, showed her gold teeth in a mirthless auto- 
matic smile, and added the allurement of an ice-cold 
wink. 

The door of the crib at the corner stood open, and 
just before I reached it a woman stepped out and sur- 
veyed me as I approached. She wore a white linen skirt 
and a middy blouse, attire grotesquely juvenile for one of 
her years. Her hair, of which she had but a moderate 
amount, was light brown and stringy, and she wore gold- 
rinimed spectacles. She did not look depraved but, upon 
the contrary resembled a highly respectable, if homely, 
German cook I once employed. As I passed her win- 
dow I saw hanging there a glass sign, across which, in 
gold letters, was the title, "Madam Leo." 

"Madam Leo," she said to me, nodding and pointing 
at her chest. "That's me. Leo, the lion, eh?" She 
laughed foolishly. 

I paused and made some casual inquiry concerning 
her prosperity. 

"Things is dull now^ in Cripple Creek," she said. 
"There ain't much business any more. I wish they 'd 
start a white man's club or a dance hall across the 
street. Then Cripple Creek would be booming." 

I think I remarked, in reply, that things did look 

437 



ABROAD AT HOME 

rather dull. In the meantime I glanced in at her little 
room. There was a chair or two, a cheap oak dresser, 
and an iron bed. The room looked neat. 

"Ain't I got a nice clean place?" suggested Madam 
Leo. Then as I assented, she pointed to a calendar 
which hung upon the wall. At the top of it was a colored 
print from some French painting, showing a Cupid kiss- 
ing a filmily draped Psyche. 

"That 's me," said Madam Leo. "That 's me when 
I was a young girl!" Again she loosed her laugh. 

I started to move on. 

"Where are you from?" she asked. 

"I came up from Colorado Springs," I said. 

"Well," she returned, "when you go back send some 
nice boys up here. Tell them to see Madam Leo. Tell 
them a middle-aged woman with spectacles. I 'm 
known here. I been here four years. Oh, things ain't 
so bad. I manage to make two or three dollars a day." 

As I passed to leeward of her on the narrow walk I 
got the smell of a strong, brutal perfume. 

"Have you got to be going?" she asked. 

"Yes," I answered. "I must go to the train." 

"Well, then — so long," she said. 

"So long." 

"Don't forget Madam Leo," she admonished, giving 
utterance, again, to her strident, feeble-minded laugh. 

"I won't," I promised. 

And I never, never shall. 



CHAPTER XXXIV 
THE MORMON CAPITAL 

I THINK it was In Kansas City that I first became 
conscious of the fact that, without my knowing it, 
my mind had made, in advance, imaginary pic- 
tures of certain sections of the country, and that, in 
ahiiost every instance, these pictures were remarkable 
for their untruthfulness. Kansas City itself surprised 
me with its hills, for I had been thinking of it in con- 
nection with the prairies. With Denver it was the 
other way about. Thinking of Denver as a mountain 
city, instead of a city near the mountains, I expected 
hills, but did not find them. And when I crossed the 
Rockies, they too afforded a surprise, not because of their 
height, but because of their width. Evidently I must 
have had some vague idea that a train, traveling west 
from Denver, would climb very definitely up the Rocky 
Mountains, cross the Great Divide, and proceed very 
definitely down again, upon the other side, whither a sort 
of long, sloping plain would lead to California. Denver 
itself I thought of as being placed further west upon the 
continent than is, in reality, the case. I did not realize 
at all that the city is, in fact, only a few hundred miles 
west of the half-way point on an imaginary line drawn 

439 



ABROAD AT HOME 

from coast to coast; nor was I aware that, instead of 
being for the most part sloping plain, the thousand miles 
that intervenes between Denver and the Pacific Ocean, 
is made up of series after series of mountain ranges and 
valleys, their successive crests and hollows following 
one another like the waves of the sea. 

In short, I had imagined that the Rockies were the 
whole show. I had not the faintest recollection of the 
Cordilleran System (of which the Rockies and all these 
other ranges are but a part), while as for the Sierra 
Nevadas, I remembered them only when I came to them 
and then much as one will recall a slight acquaintance 
who has been in jail for many years. 

Are you shocked by my ignorance — or my confession 
of it ? Then let me ask you if you know that the Uintah 
Mountain Range, in Utah, is the only range in the 
entire country which runs east and west? And have 
you ever heard of the Pequop Mountains, or the Cedar 
Mountains, or the Santa Roasas, or the Egans, or the 
Humboldts, or the Washoes, or the Gosiutes, or the 
Toyales, or the Toquimas, or the Hot Creek Mountains ? 
And did you know that in California as well as 
in New Hampshire there are the White Mountains? 
And what do you know of the Wahsatch and Oquirrh 
Ranges ? 

Not wishing to keep the class in geography after 
school, I shall not tell you about all these mountains, but 
will satisfy myself with the statement that, in an amphi- 
theater formed between the two last mentioned ranges, 

440 



THE MORMON CAPITAL 

at the head of a broad, irrigated valley, is situated Salt 
Lake City. 

The very name of Salt Lake City had a flat sound in 
my ears ; and in that mental album of imaginary photo- 
graphs of cities, to which I have referred, I saw the 
Mormon capital as on a sandy plain, with the Great 
Salt Lake on one side and the Great Salt Desert on the 
other. Therefore, upon arriving, I was surprised again, 
for the lake is not visible at all, being a dozen miles dis- 
tant, and the desert is removed still farther, while in- 
stead of sandy plains the mountains rise abruptly on 
three sides of the city, and on the fourth is the sweet 
valley, covered with rich farms and orchards, and dotted 
here and there with minor Mormon settlements. 

Like Mark Twain, who visited Salt Lake many years 
ago, before the railroad went there, I managed to forget 
the lake entirely after I had been there for a little while. 
I made no excursion to Saltair Beach, the playground 
of the neighborhood, and only saw the lake when our 
train crossed a portion of it after leaving the city. 

I do not know that the great pavilion at Saltair 
Beach, of which every one has seen pictures, is a Mor- 
mon property, but it well may be, for the Mormons have 
never been a narrow-minded sect with regard to decent 
gaieties. They approve of dancing, and the ragtime 
craze has reached them, for, as I was walking past the 
Lion House, one evening, I heard the music and saw a 
lot of young people "trotting" gaily, in the place where 
formerly resided most of the twenty odd known wives 

441 



ABROAD AT HOME 

of the late Brigham Young. Later a Mormon told me 
that dances are held in Mormon meeting-houses and that 
they are always opened with prayer. 

Also in the cafe of the Hotel Utah there was dancing 
every night, and when the members of the "Honeymoon 
Express" Company put in an appearance there one night, 
we might have been on Broadway. The hotel, I was 
informed, is owned by Mormons; it is an excellent 
establishment. They do not stare at you as though they 
thought you an eccentric if you ask for tea at five 
o'clock, but bring it to you in the most approved fashion, 
with a kettle and a lamp, and the neatest silver tea serv- 
ice I have ever seen in an American hotel. But that is 
by the way, for I was speaking of the frivolities of Mor- 
mondom, and afternoon tea is, with me at least, a seri- 
ous matter. 

Salt Lake City was, until a few years ago, a "wide 
open town." The "stockade" was famous among the 
red-light institutions of the country. But that is gone, 
having been washed away by our national "wave 
of reform," and the town has now a rather orderly ap- 
pearance, although it is not without its night cafes, 
one of them being the inevitable "Maxim's," without 
which, it would appear, no American city is now com- 
plete. 

One of the first things the Mormons did, on establish- 
ing their city, was to build an amusement hall, and as 
long as fifty years ago, this was superseded by the Salt 
Lake Theatre, a picturesque old playhouse which is still 

442 



THE MORMON CAPITAL 

standing, and which looks, inside and out, hke an old 
wartime wood-cut of Ford's Theatre in Washington. 
Even before the railroads came the best actors and 
actresses in the country played in this theater, drawn 
there by the strong financial inducements which the 
Mormons offered, and it is interesting to note that many 
stage favorites of to-day made their first appearances in 
this playhouse. If I am not mistaken, Edwin Milton 
Royle made his debut as an actor there, and both Maude 
Adams and Ada Dwyer were born in Salt Lake City, 
and appeared upon the stage for the first time at the 
Salt Lake Theatre. Yes, it is an interesting and his- 
toric playhouse, and I hope that when it burns up, as 
I have no doubt it ultimately will, no audience will 
be present, for I think that it will go like tinder. And 
although I still bemoan the money which I spent to see 
there, a maudlin entertainment called "The Honeymoon 
Express," direct from that home of banal vulgarities, 
the New York Winter Garden, I cannot c{uite bring 
myself to hope that when the Salt Lake Theatre burns, 
the man who wrote "The Honeymoon Express," the 
manager who produced it, and the company which 
played it, will be rehearsing there. For all their sins, 
I should not like to see them burned, though as to being 
roasted — well, that is a different thing. 

Whatever may be one's opinion of the matrimonial 
industry of Brigham Young, the visitor to Salt Lake 
City will not dispute that the late leader of the Mormons 
knew, far better than most men of his day, how a town 

443 



ABROAD AT HOME 

should be laid out. The blocks of Salt Lake City are 
rectangular ; the lots are large, the streets wide and ad- 
mirably paved with asphalt, almost all the houses are 
low, and stand in their own green grounds, and perhaps 
the most characteristic note of all is given by the poplars 
and box elders which grow everywhere, not only in the 
city, but throughout the valley. 

Besides my preconceptions as to the city, I arrived 
in Salt Lake City with certain preconceptions as to Mor- 
mons. I expected them to be radically different, some- 
how, from all other people I had met. I anticipated 
finding them deceitful and evasive: furtive people, wan- 
dering in devious ways and disappearing into mysterious 
houses, at dead of night. I wanted to see them, I wanted 
to talk with them, but I wondered, nervously, whether 
one might speak to them about themselves and their re- 
ligion, and more especially, whether one might use the 
words "Mormon" and "polygamy" without giving of- 
fense. 

It was not without misgivings, therefore, that my 
companion and I went to keep an appointment with 
Joseph F. Smith, head of the Mormon Church — or, to 
give it its official title, the Church of Jesus Christ of 
Latter Day Saints. We found the President, with sev- 
eral high officials of the church, in his office at the Lion 
House — the large adobe building in which, as I have 
said, formerly resided the rank and file of Brigham 
Young's wives ; although Amelia lived by herself, in the 
so called "Amelia Palace," across the street. 

444 



THE MORMON CAPITAL 

Mr. Smith is a tall, dignified man who comes far from 
looking his full seventy-six years. The nose upon 
which he wears his gold rimmed spectacles is the domi- 
nant feature of his face, being one of those great, strong, 
mountainous, indomitable noses. His eyes are dark, 
large and keen, and he wears a flowing gray beard and 
dresses in a black frock-coat. He and the men around 
him looked like a group of strong, prosperous, dog- 
matically religious New Englanders, such as one might 
find at a directors' meeting in the back room of some 
very solid old bank in Maine or Massachusetts. Clearly 
they were executives and men of wealth. As for re- 
ligion, had I not known that they were Mormons, I 
should have judged them to be either Baptists, Meth- 
odists or Presbyterians. 

The occasion did not prove to be a gay one. I tried 
to explain to the Mormons that I was writing impres- 
sions of my travels and that I had desired to meet them 
because, in Salt Lake City, the Mormons seemed to sup- 
ply the greatest interest. 

But even after I had explained my mission, a frigid 
air prevailed, and I felt that here, at least, I would get 
but scant material. Their attitude perplexed me. I 
could not believe they were embarrassed, although I 
knew that I was. 

Then presently the mystery was cleared up, for Presi- 
dent Smith launched out upon a statement of his opinion 
regarding "Collier's Weekly" — the paper in which many 
of these chapters first appeared — and I became suddenly 

445 



ABROAD AT HOME 

and painfully aware that I was being mistaken for a 
muck-raker. 

The President's opinion of ^'Collier's" was more 
frank than flattering, and though one or two of the 
other Mormons, who seemed to understand our aims, 
tried to smooth matters over in the interests of har- 
mony, he would not be mollified, but insisted vigorously 
that "Collier's" had printed outrageous lies about him. 
This was all news to me, for, as it happened, I had not 
read the articles to which he referred, and for which, 
as a representative of "Collier's," I was now, apparently, 
being held responsible. I explained that to the Presi- 
dent of the Church, whereupon he simmered down 
somewhat, but I think he still regarded my companion 
and me with suspicion, and was glad to see us go. 

Thus did we suffer for the sins of Sarah Comstock. 

It may not seem necessary to add that the subject of 
polygamy was not mentioned in that conversation. 

In thinking over our encounter with these leading 
Mormons I could not feel surprised, for all that I have 
read about this sect has been in the nature of attacks. 
Mark Twain tells about what was called a "Destroying 
Angel" of the Mormon Church, stating that, "as I 
understand it, they are Latter Day Saints who are set 
apart by the Church to conduct permanent disappear- 
ances of obnoxious citizens." He characterizes the one 
he met as "a loud, profane, offensive old blackguard." 
But Mormon Destroying Angels are things of the past, 
as, I believe, are Mormon visions of Empire, and Mor- 

446 



THE MORMON CAPITAL 

nion aggressions of all kinds. Another book, Harry 
Leon Wilson's novel, ''The Lions of the Lord," was not 
calculated to soothe the Mormon sensibilities, and of the 
numerous articles in magazines and newspapers which 
I have read — most of them with regard to polygamy — 
I recall none that has not dealt with them severely. 

Now, remembering that whatever we may believe, the 
Mormons believe devoutly in their religion, what must 
be their point of view about all this? Their story is 
not different from any other in that it has two sides. 
If they did commit aggressions in the early days, which 
seems to have been the case, they were also the victims 
of persecution from the very start, and it is difficult to 
determine, at this late day, whether they, or those who 
made their lives in the East unbearable, were most at 
fault. 

According to Mormon history the church had its very 
beginnings in religious dissension. It is recounted by the 
Mormons that Joseph Smith, Jr., founder of the church 
(he was the uncle of the present President), attended 
revival meetings in Manchester, Vermont, and was so 
confused by the differences of opinion and the ill-feeling 
between different sects that he prayed to the Lord to 
tell him which was the true religion. In regard to this. 
Smith wrote that after his prayer, "a mysterious 
power of darkness overcame me. I could not speak and 
I felt myself in the grasp of an unseen personage of 
darkness. My soul went up in an unuttered prayer for 
deliverance, and as I was about despairing, the gloom 

447 



ABROAD AT HOME 

rolled away and I saw a pillar of light descending from 
heaven, approaching me." 

Smith then tells of a vision of a Glorious Being, who 
informed him that none of the warring religious sects 
had the right version. Then: "The light vanished, 
the personages withdrew and recovering myself, I found 
myself lying on my back gazing up into heaven." 

Apropos of this, and of other similar visions which 
Smith said he had, it is interesting to note that there is 
a theory, founded upon a considerable investigation, 
that Smith was an epileptic. 

After his first vision Smith had others, and according 
to the Mormon belief, he finally had revealed to him 
the Hill Cumorah (twenty-five miles southwest of 
Rochester, N. Y.) where he ultimately found, with the 
aid of the Angel Moroni, the gold plates containing 
the Book of Mormon, together with the Urim and 
Thummim, the stone spectacles through which he read 
the plates and translated them. After making his 
translation. Smith returned the plates to the angel, but 
before doing so, showed them to eight witnesses who 
certified to having seen them. 

As time went on Smith had more visions until at last 
the Mormon Church was organized in 1830. Revela- 
tions continued. The church grew. Branches were 
established in various places, but according to their his- 
tory, the Mormons were persecuted by members of other 
religious sects and driven from place to place. For a 
time they were in Kirtland, Ohio. Later they went to 

448 



THE MORMON CAPITAL 

Jackson County, Mo., but their houses were bvu'ned and 
they were driven on again. In 1838 "the Lord made 
known to him (Smith) that Adam had dwelt in America, 
and that the Garden of Eden was located in Jackson 
County, Mo." For a time they were in Nauvoo, 111., 
where it seems their political activities got them into 
trouble, and at last Joseph Smith and his brother Hiram 
were shot and killed by a mob, at Carthage, 111. That 
was in 1844, There were then 10,000 Mormons, over 
whom Brigham Young became the leading power. Soon 
after this the westward movement began. They estab- 
lished various settlements in Iowa, and in 1847 Young 
and his pioneer band of 143 men, 3 women and 2 chil- 
dren, entered the valley of Salt Lake, where they im- 
mediately set up tents and cabins and began to plow 
and plant, and where they started what the Mormons 
say was the first irrigation system in the United States. 
Certainly there were good engineers among them. 
Their early buildings show it — especially the famous 
Tabernacle in the great square they own at the center 
of the city. The vast arched roof of the Tabernacle is 
supported by wooden beams which were lashed together, 
no nails having been used. This building is not beau- 
tiful, but is very interesting. It contains among other 
things a large pipe organ which was, in its day, prob- 
ably the finest in this country, although there are better 
organs elsewhere, now. The Mormon Trails are also 
recognized in the West as the best trails, with the lowest 
levels, and there are many other evidences of unusual 

449 



ABROAD AT HOME 

engineering and mechanical skill on the part of the early 
settlers, including a curious wooden odometer (now in 
the museum at Salt Lake City) which worked in con- 
nection with the wheel of a prairie schooner, and which 
was marvelously accurate. 

The revelation as to the practice of polygamy was 
made to Brigham Young, and was promulgated in 
Utah in 1852, soon becoming a subject of contention 
between the Mormons and the Government. The prac- 
tice was finally suspended by a manifesto issued by 
President Wilford Woodruff, in 1890, and the "History 
of the Church," written by Edward H. Anderson, de- 
clares that "a plurality of wives is now neither taught 
nor practised." 

Speaking of polygamy I was informed by Prof. Levi 
Edgar Young, a nephew of Brigham Young, a Harvard 
graduate and an authority on Mormon History, that 
not over 3 per cent, of men claiming membership in the 
Mormon Church ever had practised it. These figures 
surprised me, as I had imagined polygamy to be the 
rule, rather than the exception. Professor Young, 
however, assured me that a great many leading Mor- 
mons had refused from the first to accept the practice. 

It must be remembered that the day of Brigham 
Young was not this day. He was a powerful, far-see- 
ing and very able man, and it does seem probable that he 
had the idea of founding an Empire in the West. 
However the discovery of gold in '48, flooded the West 
with settlers and brought a preponderance of "gen- 

450 



THE MORMON CAPITAL 

tiles" (as the Mormons call those who are not members 
of their church) into all that country, making the real- 
ization of Young's dream impossible. What the Mor- 
mon Church needed, in those early times, was increase 
— more men to do its work, more women to bear chil- 
dren — and viewed entirely from a practical standpoint, 
polygamy was a practice calculated to bring about this 
end. I met, in Salt Lake City men whose fathers had 
married anywhere from five or six to a dozen wives, and 
so far as sturdiness goes, I may say that I am convinced 
that plural marriages brought about no deterioration in 
the stock. 

I am informed that the membership of the church, 
to-day, is between 500,000 and 600,000, and that less 
than I per cent, of the Mormon families are at present 
polygamous. It is not denied that some few polyga- 
mous marriages have been performed since the issuance 
of the manifesto against the practice, but these have 
been secret marriages without the sanction of the 
church, and priests who have performed such marriages 
have, when detected, been excommunicated. 

I was told in Salt Lake City that, in the cases of some 
of the older Mormons, who had plural wives long before 
the manifesto, there was little doubt that polygamy was 
still being practised. Some of these men are the high- 
est in the church, and it was explained to me that, hav- 
ing married their wives in good faith, they proposed to 
carry out what they regard as their obligations to 
those wives. However, these are old men, and with 

451 



ABROAD AT HOME 

the rise of another generation there can be Httle doubt 
that these last remnants of polygamy will have been 
finally stamped out. 

The modern young Mormon man or woman seems to 
be a perfectly normal human being with a normal point 
of view concerning marriage. Furthermore, the Mor- 
mons believe in education. The school buildings scat- 
tered everywhere throughout the valley are very fine, 
and I was informed that 80 per cent, of the whole tax 
income of the State of Utah was expended upon edu- 
cation, and that in educational percentages Utah com- 
pares favorably with Massachusetts. 

What effect a broad education might have upon suc- 
ceeding generations of Mormons it is difficult to say. 
From a literary point of view, the Book of Mormon will 
not bear close scrutiny. Mark Twain described it accu- 
rately when he said, in ''Roughing It" : 

The book seems to be merely a prosy detail of imaginary his- 
tory, with the Old Testament for a model ; followed by a tedious 
plagiarism of the New Testament. The author labored to give 
his words and phrases the quaint old-fashioned sound and struc- 
ture of our King James's translation of the Scriptures ; and the 
result is a mongrel — half modern glibness and half ancient sim- 
plicity and gravity. The latter is awkward and constrained ; the 
former natural, but grotesque by contrast. Whenever he found 
his speech growing too modern — which was about every sentence 
or two — he ladled in a few such Scriptural phrases as "exceed- 
ing sore," "and it came to pass," etc., and made things satisfac- 
tory again. . . , The Mormon Bible is rather stupid and tiresome 
to read, but there is nothing vicious in its teachings. Its code 
of morals is unobjectionable — it is "smouched" from the New 
Testament and no credit given. 

452 











^- ^-^-^^^^^^ 



.r^ 







§S0 



THE MORMON CAPITAL 

Certainly there is no need to prove that education is 
death on dogma. That fact has been proving itself as 
scientific research has come more and more into play 
upon various dogmatic creeds. I was told, however, 
that the Mormon Church schools were liberal; that in- 
stead of restricting knowledge to conform to the teach- 
ings of the church, the church was showing a tendency 
to adapt itself to meet new conditions. 

If it is doing that it is cleverer than some other 
churches. 



453 



CHAPTER XXXV 
THE SMITHS 

BEFORE going to Salt Lake City I had heard 
that the Mormons were in complete control of 
politics and business in the State of Utah, and 
that it was their practice to discriminate against "gen- 
tiles," making it impossible for them to be successful 
there. I asked a great many citizens of Salt Lake City 
about this, and all the evidence indicated that such 
rumors are without foundation, and that, of recent 
years. Mormons and "gentiles" have worked harmoni- 
ously together, socially and in business. The Mormons 
have a strong political machine and pull together much 
as the Roman Catholics do, but the idea that they domi- 
nate everything in Salt Lake City seems to be a mis- 
taken one. Time and again I was assured of this by 
both Mormons and "gentiles," and an officer of the 
Commercial Club went so far as to draw up figures, 
supporting the statement, as follows : 

Of the city's fourteen banks and trust companies, 
nine are not under Mormon control; of five department 
stores, four are non-Mormon; all skyscrapers except 
one are owned by "gentiles" ; likewise four-fifths of the 
best residence property. Furthermore, neither the city 

454 



THE SMITHS 

government nor the public utilities are run by Mormons, 
nor are the Mayor and the President of the Board of 
Education members of that church. 

This is not to say that Mormon business interests are 
not enormous, but only that there has been exaggera- 
tion on these points, as on many others concerning this 
sect. The heads of the church are big business men, 
and President Smith is, among other things, a director 
of the Union Pacific Railroad Company. 

Among other well-informed men with whom I talked 
upon this subject was the city-editor of a leading news- 
paper. 

'T am not a Mormon," he said, "although my wife is 
one. You may draw your own conclusions as to the 
Mormon attitude when I tell you that the paper on 
which I work is controlled by them, yet that, as it hap- 
pens just now, I have n't a Mormon reporter on my 
staff. Here' and there there may be some old hard- 
shell Mormon who won't employ any one that is n't 
a member of the church, but cases of that kind are 
as rare among Mormons as among other religious 
sects." 

Every business man with whom I talked seemed 
anxious to impress me with this fact, that I might pass 
it on in print. 

"For heaven's sake," said one impassioned citizen, 
"tell people that we raise something out here besides 
Mormons and hell!" 

One of the most level-headed men I met in Salt Lake 

455 



ABROAD AT HOME 

City was a Mormon, though not orthodox. His position 
with regard to the church was precisely the same as that 
of a man who has been brought up in any other church, 
but who, as he grows older, cannot accept the creed in 
its entirety. His attitude as to the Mormon Bible was 
one of honest doubt. In short, he was an agnostic, and 
as such talked interestingly. 

"Of course," he said, "out here we are as used to the 
Mormon religion and to the idea that some men have 
a number of wives, as you are to the idea that men have 
only one wife. It does n't seem strange to us. I can't 
adjust my mind to the fact that it is strange, and I only 
become conscious of it when I go to other parts of the 
country and find that, when people know I 'm a Mor- 
mon, they become very curious, and want me to tell 
them all about the Mormons and polygamy. 

"Now, in trying to understand the Mormons, the first 
thing to remember is that they are human beings, with 
the same set of virtues and failings and feelings as 
other human beings. There are some who are dogmat- 
ically religious ; some with whom marriage — even plural 
marriage — is just as pure and spiritual a thing as it is 
with any other people in the world. On the other hand, 
some Mormons, like some members of other sects, have 
doubtless had lusts. The family life of some Mormons 
is very beautiful, and as smoking, drinking and other 
dissipations are forbidden, orthodox Mormon men lead 
very clean lives. In this they are upheld by our women, 
for many Mormon women will not marry a man except- 

45.6 



THE SMITHS 

ing in our Temple, and no man who has broken the rules 
of the church may be married there. 

"Among the younger generation of Mormons you will 
see the same general line of characteristics as among 
young people anywhere. Some of them grow up into 
strict Mormons, while others — particularly some of the 
sons of rich Mormons — are what you might call 
'sports.' Human nature is no different in Utah than 
elsewhere. 

"My father had several wives and I had a great num- 
ber of brothers and sisters. We did n't live like one big 
family, and the half-brothers and half-sisters did not 
feel towards each other as real brothers and sisters do. 
When my father was a very old man he married a 
young wife, and we felt about it just as any other sons 
and daughters would at seeing their father do such a 
thing. We felt it was a mistake, and that it was not 
just to us, for father had not many more years to live, 
and it appeared that on his death, we might have his 
young wife and her family to look after. 

"My views are such that in bringing up my own chil- 
dren I have not had them baptized as Mormons at the 
age of eight, according to the custom of the church. 
This has grieved my people, but I cannot help it. I am 
bringing my children up to fear God and lead clean lives, 
but I do not think I have the right to force them 
into any church, and I propose to leave the matter of 
joining or not joining to their own discretion, later 
on." 

457 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Another Mormon, this one orthodox, and a cultivated 
man, told me he thought that in most cases the old po- 
lygamous marriages were entered into with a spirit of 
real religious fervor. 

"My father married two wives," he said. "He loved 
my mother, who was his first wife, very dearly, and 
they are as fine and contented a couple as you ever saw. 
But when the revelation as to polygamy was made, 
father took a second wife because he believed it to be 
his duty to do so." 

"How did your mother feel about it?" I asked. 

"I have no doubt," said he, "that it hurt mother ter- 
ribly, but she was submissive because she believed it 
was right. And later, when the manifesto against po- 
lygamy was issued, it hurt father's second wife, when 
he had to give her up, for he had two children by her. 
However, he obeyed implicitly the law of the church, 
supporting his second wife and her children, but living 
with my mother." 

Later this gentleman took me to call at the home of 
this old couple. The husband, more than eighty years 
of age, was a professional man with a degree from a 
large eastern university. He was a gentleman of the 
old school, very fine, dignified, and gracious, and there 
was an air about him which somehow made me think of 
a sturdy, straight old tree. As for his wife she was 
one of the two most adorable old ladies I have ever 
met. 

Very simply she told me of the early days. Her 

458 



THE SMITHS 

parents had been well-to-do Pennsylvania Dutch and 
had left a prosperous home in the East and come out to 
the West, not to better themselves, but because of their 
religion. (One should always remember that, in think- 
ing of the Mormons: whatever may have been the 
rights and wrongs of their religion, they have believed 
in it and suffered for it.) She, herself, was born in 
1847, ii^ ^ prairie schooner, on the banks of the Missouri 
River, and in that vehicle she was carried across the 
plains and through the passes, to where Salt Lake City 
was then in the first year of its settlement. Some fam- 
ilies were still living in tents when she was a little girl, 
but log cabins were springing up. Behind her house, I 
was shown, later, the cabin — now used as a lumber shed 
— in which she dwelt as a child. 

Fancy the fascination that there was in hearing that 
old lady tell, in her simple way, the story of the early 
Mormon settlement. For all her gentleness and the 
low voice in which she spoke, the tale was an epic in 
which she herself had figured. She was not merely 
the daughter of a pioneer, and the wife of one ; she was 
a pioneer herself. She had seen it all, from the begin- 
ning. How much she had seen, how much she had 
endured, how much she had known of happiness and 
sorrow! And now, in her old age, she had a nature 
like a distillation made of everything there is in life, 
and whatever bitterness there may have been in life for 
her had gone, and left her altogether lovable and alto- 
gether sweet. 

459 



ABROAD AT HOME 

I did not wish to leave her house, and when I did, 
and when she said she hoped that I would come again, 
I was conscious of a lump in my throat. I do not ex- 
pect you to understand it, for I do not, quite, myself. 
But there it was — that kind of lump which, once in a 
long time, will rise up in one's throat when one sees a 
very lovely, very happy child. 

When our friend Professor Young asked us whether 
we had met President Joseph F. Smith, we told him of 
our unfortunate encounter with that gentleman, in the 
Lion House, a day or two before. This information 
led to activities on the part of the Professor, which in 
turn led to our being invited, on the day of our depart- 
ure, to meet the President and some members of his 
family at the Beehive House — the official residence of 
the head of the church. 

The Beehive House is a large old-fashioned mansion 
with the kind of pillared front so often seen in the 
architecture of the South. Its furnishings are, like the 
house itself, old-fashioned, homelike, and unostenta- 
tious. 

I have forgotten who let us in, but I have no recollec- 
tion of a maid, and I rather think the door was opened 
by the President himself. At all events we had no 
sooner entered than we met him, in the hall. His man- 
ner had changed. He was most hospitable, and walked 
through several rooms with us, showing us some plaster 
casts and paintings, the work of Mormon artists. Most 

460 







The Lion House — a large adobe building in which formerly resided the rank and 
file of Brigham Young's wives 



I 



THE SMITHS 

of the paintings were extremely ordinary, but the work 
of one young sculptor was remarkable, and as the story 
of him is remarkable as well, I wish to mention him 
here. 

He is a boy named Arvard Fairbanks, a grandson of 
Mormon pioneers, on both sides, and he is not yet twenty 
years of age. At twelve he started modeling animals 
from life. At thirteen he took a scholarship in the Art 
Students' League, in New York, and exhibited at the 
National Academy of Design. At fourteen he took 
another scholarship and also got an art school into trou- 
ble with the sometimes rather silly Gerry Society, for 
permitting a child to model from the nude. Work done 
by this boy at the age of fifteen is nothing short of 
amazing. I have never seen such finished things from 
the hand of a youth. His subjects — Indians, buffalo, 
pumas, etc. — show splendid observation and under- 
standing, and are full of the feeling of the West. And 
if the West is not very proud of him some day, I shall 
be surprised. 

After showing us these things, and talking upon gen- 
eral subjects for a time, the President went to the foot 
of the stairs and called: 

"Mamma !" 

Whereupon a woman's voice answered, from above, 
and a moment later Mrs. Smith — one of the Mrs. 
Smiths — appeared. She was most cordial and kindly 
— a pleasant, motherly sort of woman who made you 
feel that she was always in good spirits. 

461 



ABROAD AT HOME 

After we had enjoyed a pleasant little talk with her, 
one of her sons and his wife came in : he a strong young 
farmer, she pretty, plump and rosy. They had with 
them their little girl, who played about upon the floor. 
Later appeared President Penrose (there are several 
Presidents in the Mormon Church, but President Smith 
is the leader) who has red cheeks and brown hair in 
spite of the fact that he is eighty-two years old, and con- 
siderably married. 

.Here in the midst of this intimate family group I kept 
wishing that, in some way, the matter of polygamy 
might be mentioned. By this time I had heard so many 
Mormons talk about it freely that I understood the topic 
was not taboo; still, in the presence of Mrs. Smith I 
hardly knew how to begin, or indeed, whether it was 
tactful to begin — although I had been informed in ad- 
vance that I might ask questions. 

But how to ask? I couldn't very well say to this 
pleasant lady: *'How do you like being one of five or 
six wives, and how do you think the others like it?" 
And as for: ''How do you like being married?" that 
hardly expressed the question that was in my mind — be- 
sides which, it was plainly evident that the lady was 
entirely content with her lot. 

It did not seem proper to inquire of my hostess: 
"How can you be content?" That much my social in- 
stinct told me. What, then, could I ask? 

At last the baby granddaughter gave me a happy 

462 



THE SMITHS 

thought. ''Certainly," I said to myself, "it cannot be 
bad form to make polite inquiries about the family of 
any gentleman." 

I tried to think how I might best ask the President the 
question. "Have you any children?" would not do, be- 
cause there was his son, right in the room, and other 
sons and daughters had been referred to in the course 
of conversation. Finally, as time was getting short, I 
determined to put it bluntly. 

"How many children and grandchildren have you?" 
I asked President Smith. 

He was not in the least annoyed by the inquiry; only 
a little bit perplexed. 

"Let 's see," he answered ruminatively, fingering his 
long beard, and looking at the ceiling. "I don't remem- 
ber exactly — but over a hundred." 

"Why!" put in Mrs. Smith, proudly, "you have a lot 
over a hundred." Then, to me, she explained: "I am 
the mother of eleven, and I have had thirty-two grand- 
children in the last twelve years. There is forty-three, 
right there." 

"Oh, you surely have a hundred and ten, father," said 
young Smith. 

"Perhaps, perhaps," returned the modern Abraham, 
contentedly. 

"I beat you, though!" laughed President Pen- 
rose. 

"I don't know about that," interposed young Smith, 

463 



ABROAD AT HOME 

sticking up for the family. "If father would count up 
I think you 'd find he was ahead." 

''How many have you?" President Smith inquired of 
his coadjutor. 

President Penrose rubbed his hands and beamed with 
satisfaction. 

"A hundred and twenty-odd," he said. 

After that there was no gainsaying him. He was 
supreme. Even Mrs. Smith admitted it. 

"Yes," she said, smiling and shaking a playful finger 
at him, "you 're ahead just now; but remember, you 're 
older than we are. You just give us time !" 



464 



CHAPTER XXXVI 
PASSING PICTURES 

AS our train crossed the Great Salt Lake the 
farther shores were ghstening in a golden haze, 
half real, half mirage, like the shores of Pses- 
tum as you see them from the monastery at Amalli on 
a sunny day. Beyond the lake a portion of the desert 
was glazed with a curious thin film of water — evidently 
overflow — in which the forms of stony hills at the mar- 
gin of the waste were reflected so clearly that the eye 
could not determine the exact point of meeting between 
cliff and plain. Farther out in the desert there was 
no water, and as we left the hills behind, the world be- 
came a great wkite arid reach, flat as only moist sand can 
be flat, and tragic in its desolation. For a time nothing, 
literally, was visible but sky and desert, save for a line 
of telegraph poles, rising forlornly beside the right-of- 
way. 

I found the desert impressive, but my companion, 
whose luncheon had not agreed with him, declared that 
it was not up to specifications. 

"Any one who is familiar with Frederick Reming- 
ton's drawings," he said, "knows that there must be 
skeletons and buffalo skulls stuck around on deserts," 

465 



ABROAD AT HOME 

I was about to explain that the Western Pacific was 
a new railroad and that probably they had not yet found 
time to do their landscape gardening along the line, 
when, far ahead, I caught sight of a dark dot on the 
sand. I kept my eye on it. As our train overtook it, 
it began to assume form, and at last I saw that it was 
actually a prairie schooner. Presently we passed it. 
It was moving slowly along, a few hundred yards from 
the track. The horses were walking; their heads were 
down and they looked tired. The man who was driv- 
ing was the only human being visible; he was hunched 
over, and when the train went by, he never so much as 
turned his head. 

The picture was perfect. Even my companion ad- 
mitted that, and ceased to demand skulls and skeletons. 
And when, two or three hours later, after having 
crossed the desert and worked our way into the hills, 
we saw a full-fledged cowboy on a pinto pony, we felt 
that the Western Pacific railroad was complete in its 
theatrical accessories. 

The cowboy did his best to give us Western color. 
When he saw the train coming, he spurred up his pony, 
and waving a lasso, set out in pursuit of an innocent 
old milch cow, which was grazing nearby. That she 
was no range animal was evident. Her sleek condition 
and her calm demeanor showed that she was fully ac- 
customed to the refined surroundings of the stable. As 
he came at her she gazed in horrified amazement, quite 
as some fat, dignified old lady might gaze at a bad little 

466 



PASSING PICTURES 

boy, running at her with a pea-shooter. Then, in bo- 
vine alarm, she turned and lumbered heavily away. 
The cowboy charged and cut her off, waving his rope 
and yelling. However, no capture was made. As 
soon as the train had passed the cowboy desisted, and 
poor old bossy was allowed to settle down again to com- 
fortable grazing. 

After a good dinner in one of those admirable dining 
cars one always finds on western roads, and a good 
smoke, my companion and I were ready for bed. But 
as we were about to retire, a fellow-passenger with 
whom we had been talking, asked, "Are n't you going 
to sit up for Elko?" 

"What is there at Elko?" inquired my companion, 
with a yawn. 

"Oh," said the other, "there's a little of the local 
color of Nevada there. You had better wait." 

"I don't believe we '11 be able to see anything," I put 
in, glancing out at the black night. 

"It is something you could n't see by daylight," said 
the stranger. 

That made us curious, so we sat up. 

As the train slowed for Elko, and we went to get 
our overcoats, we observed that one passenger, a 
woman, was making ready to get off. We had noticed 
her during the day — a stalwart woman of thirty-three 
or four, perhaps, who, we judged, had once been very 
handsome, though she now looked faded. Her hair 
was a dull red, and her complexion was of that milky 

467 



ABROAD AT HOME 

whiteness which so often accompanies red hair. Her 
eyes were green, cold and expressionless, and her mouth, 
though well formed, sagged at the corners, giving her 
a discontented and rather hard look. I remember that 
we wondered what manner of woman she was, and that 
we could not decide. 

The train stopped, and with our acquaintance of the 
car, my companion and I alighted. It was a long train, 
and our sleeper, which was near the rear, came to a 
standstill some distance short of the station building, so 
that the part of the platform to which we stepped was 
without light. Beyond the station we saw several build- 
ings looming like black shadows, but that was all; we 
could make out nothing of the town. 

"I don't see much here," I remarked to the man who 
had suggested sitting up. 

"Come on," he said, moving back through the black- 
ness, towards the end of the train. 

As I turned to follow him I saw the red-haired woman 
step down from the car and hand her suitcase to a man 
who had been awaiting her; they stood for a moment 
in conversation; as I moved away I heard their low 
voices. 

Reaching the last car our guide descended to the track 
and crossed to the other side. We followed. My first 
glimpse of what lay beyond gave me the impression that 
a large railroad yard was spread out before me, its 
myriad switch-lights glowing red through the black 
night. But as my eyes became accustomed to the dark- 

468 



H 

c 

a 
Q 

X 





PASSING PICTURES 

ness, I saw that here was not a maze of tracks, but a 
maze of houses, and that the Hghts were not those of 
switches, but of windows and front doors: night signs 
of the traffic to which the houses were dedicated. 

''There," said our acquaintance. ''A few years back 
you 'd have seen this in ahiiost any town out here, but 
things are changing; I don't know another place on this 
whole line that shows off its red light district the way 
Elko does." 

After looking for a time at the sinister lights, we re- 
crossed the railroad track. As we stepped up to the 
platform, two figures coming in the opposite direction 
rounded the rear car and, crossing the rails, moved away 
towards the illuminated region. I heard their voices; 
they were the red haired woman and the man who had 
met her at the train. 

- Was she a new arrival? I think not, for she seemed 
to know the man, and she had, somehow, the air of 
getting home. Was she an "inmate" of one of the es- 
tablishments? Again I think not, for, with her look of 
hardness, there was also one of capability, and more 
than any one thing it is laziness and lack of capability 
which cause sane women to give up freedom for such 
"homes." No; I think the woman from the train was 
a proprietor who had been away on a vacation, or per- 
haps a "business trip." 

Suppose that to be true. Suppose that she had been 
away for several weeks. What was her feeling at see- 
ing, again, the crimson beacon in her own window? 

469 



ABROAD AT HOME 

What must it be like to get home, when home is such a 
place? Could one's mental attitude become so warped 
that one might actually look forward to returning — to 
being greeted by the ''family"? Could it be that, at 
sight of that red light, flaring over there across the 
tracks, one might heave a happy sigh and say to oneself : 
"Ah ! Home again at last ! There 's no place like 
home" — ? 

One thing the Western Pacific Railroad does that 
every railroad should do. It publishes a pamphlet, con- 
taining a relief map of its system, and a paragraph or 
two about every station on the line, giving the history 
of the place (if it has any), telling the altitude, the dis- 
tance from terminal points, and how the town got its 
name. 

From this pamphlet I judge that some one who had to 
do with the building of the Western Pacific Railroad, 
or at least with the naming of stations on the line, 
possessed a pleasantly catholic literary taste. Gaskell, 
Nevada, one stopping place, is named for the author of 
"Cranford"; Bronte, in the same State, for Charlotte 
Bronte; Poe, in California, for Edgar Allan Poe; 
Twain for Mark Twain; Harte for Bret Harte, and 
Mabie for Hamilton Wright Mabie. Other stations 
are named for British Field Marshals, German scien- 
tists, American politicians and financiers, and for old 
settlers, ranches, and landmarks. 

Had there not been washouts on the line shortly be- 

470 



PASSING PICTURES 

fore we journeyed over it, I might not have known so 
much about this Httle pamphlet, but during the night, 
when I could not sleep because of the violent rocking 
of the car, I read it with great care. Thus it happened 
that when, towards morning, we stopped, and I raised 
my curtain to find the ground covered with a blanket 
of snow, I was able to establish myself as being in the 
Sierras, somewhere in the region of the Beckwith Pass 
— which, by the way, is by two thousand feet, the lowest 
pass used by any railroad entering the State of Cali- 
fornia. 

Some time before dawn the roadbed became solid and 
I slept until summoned by my companion to see the cafion 
of the Feather River. 

Dressing hurriedly, I joined him at the window on 
the other side of the car (I have observed that, almost 
invariably, that is where the scenery is), and looked 
down into what I still remember as the most beautiful 
cafion I have ever seen. 

The last time I had looked out it had been winter, 
yet here, within the space of a few hours, had come the 
spring. It gave me the feeling of a Rip Van Winkle: 
I had slept and a whole season had passed. Our train 
was winding along a serpentine shelf nicked into the 
lofty walls of a gorge at the bottom of which rushed 
a mad stream all green and foamy. Above, the moun- 
tains were covered with tall pines, their straight trunks 
reaching heavenward like the slender columns of a Gothic 
cathedral, the roof of which was made of low-hung, 

471 



ABROAD AT HOME 

stone-gray cloud — a cathedral decked as for the Easter 
season, its aisles and altars abloom with green leaves, 
and blossoms purple and white. 

Throughout the hundred miles for which we fol- 
lowed the windings of the Feather River Cafion, our 
eyes hardly left the window. Now we would crash 
through a short, black tunnel, emerging to find still 
greater loveliness where we had thought no greater love- 
liness could be ; now we would traverse a spindly bridge 
which quickly changed the view (and us) to the other 
side of the car. Now we would pass the intake of a 
power plant ; next we would come upon the plant itself, a 
monumental pile, looking like some Rhenish castle which 
had slipped down from a peak and settled comfortably 
beside the stream. 

Once the flagman who dropped off when the train 
stopped, brought us back some souvenirs: a little pink 
lizard which, according to its captor, suited itself to a 
vogue of the moment with the name of Salamander; 
and a piece of glistening quartz which he designated 
"fools' gold." And presently, when the train was under 
way again, we saw, far down at the water's edge, the 
"fools" themselves in search of gold — two old gray- 
bearded placer-miners with their pans. 

At last the walls of the canon began to melt away, 
spreading apart and drifting down into the gentle slope 
of a green valley starred with golden poppies. Spring 
had turned to summer — a summer almost tropical, for, 
at Sacramento, early in the afternoon, we saw open 

472 



I 



PASSING PICTURES 

street-cars, their seats ranged back-to-back and facing 
outwards, like those of an Irish jaunting-car, running 
through an avenue Hned with a double row of palms, 
beneath which girls were coming home from school bare- 
headed and in linen sailor suits. 

Imagine leaving New York on a snowy Christmas 
morning, and arriving that same afternoon in Buffalo, 
to find them celebrating Independence Day, and you will 
get the sense of that transition. We had passed from 
furs to shirtsleeves in a morning. 

Late that afternoon, we left the valley and began to 
thread our way among the Coast Range hills — green 
velvet hills, soft, round and voluptuous, like the "Paps 
of Kerry." We were still amongst them when the sun 
went down, and it was night when we arrived at the ter- 
minal in Oakland. 



473 



CHAPTER XXXVII 
SAN FRANCISCO 

LEAVING the train in Oakland, one is reminded 
of Hoboken or Jersey City in the days before 
the Hudson Tubes were built. There is the 
train shed, the throng headed for the ferry, the bag- 
gage trucks, and the ferryboat itself, like a New York 
ferryboat down to its very smell. Likewise the fresh 
salt wind that blows into your face as you stand at the 
front of the boat, in crossing San Francisco Bay, is like 
a spring or summer wind in New York Harbor. So, 
if you cross at night, you have only the lights to tell you 
that you are not indeed arriving in New York. 

The ferry is three miles wide. There are no sky- 
scrapers, with lighted windows, looming overhead, as 
they loom over the Hudson. To the right the myriad 
lamps of Oakland, Berkeley and Alameda are distributed 
along the shore, electric trains dashing in front of them 
like comets; and straight ahead lies San Francisco — a 
fallen fragment of the Milky Way, draped over a suc- 
cession of receding hills. 

Crossing the ferry I tried to remember things I had 
been told of this city of my dreams, and to imagine 
what it would be like. Of course I had been warned 

474 



SAN FRANCISCO 

time and again not to refer to it as " 'Frisco," and not 
to speak of the Earthquake, but only of the Fire. I had 
those two points well in mind, but there were others 
out of which I endeavored to construct an imaginary 
town. 

San Francisco was, as I pictured it in advance, a city 
of gaiety, gold money, twenty-five cent drinks, flowers, 
Chinamen, hospitality, night restaurants, mysterious 
private dining rooms, the Bohemian Club, openhearted 
men and unrivaled women — superb, majestic, hand- 
somely upholstered, six-cylinder self-starting blondes, 
with all improvements, including high-tension double 
ignition, Prestolite lamps, and four speeds forward but 
no reverse. ^^^-^^^-^ lXj-v<u-t^ 

That is the way I pictured San Francisco, and that, 
with some slight reservations, is the way I found it. 

Several times in the course of these chapters, I have 
been conscious of an effort to say something agreeable 
about this city or that, but in the case of San Francisco, 
I find it necessary to restrain, rather than force my ap- 
preciation, lest I be charged with making noises like a 
Native Son. 

The Native Sons of the Golden West is a large and 
semi-secret organization of men born in California who, 
I was informed, are banded together to help one an- 
other and the State. Its activities are largely political 
and vocal. 

It was a Native Son who, when asked by an English- 
man, visiting the United States for the first time, to 

475 



ABROAD AT HOME 

name the Seven Wonders of America, replied: ''Santa 
Barbara, Coronado, Del Monte, San Francisco, Yo- 
semite. Lake Tahoe and Mount Shasta." 

"But," objected the visitor, "all those places are in 
California, aren't they?" 

"Of course they 're in California !" cried the Native 
Son. "Where else would they be?" 

That is the point of view of the Native Son and the 
native Californian in general. Meeting Californians 
outside their State, I have been inclined to think them 
boasters, but now, after a visit to California, I have 
come to understand that they are nothing of the kind, 
but are, upon the contrary, adherents of cold truth. 
They want to tell the truth about their State, they try 
to tell it, and if they do not succeed it is only because 
they lack the power of expression. When it comes to 
California everybody does — a fact which I shall now 
assist in demonstrating further. 

Take, for instance, the climate. The exact nature of 
the California climate had been a puzzle to me. I had 
been in the habit of considering certain parts of the 
country as suited for winter residence, and certain other 
parts for summer ; but, in the East, when I asked people 
about California, I found some who advised it as a win- 
ter substitute for Florida, and others who recommended 
it as a summer substitute for Maine. 

Therefore, on reaching San Francisco, I took pains 
to cross-examine natives as to what they meant by "cli- 
mate." 

476 




The salt-water pool, Olympic Cluli, San Francisco 



SAN FRANCISCO 

As I did not visit Southern California I shall leave 
the climate of that section to the residents, who are 
not only willing- to describe it, but who, from all ac- 
counts, can come as near doing it adequately as any- 
body can. But in San Francisco and the surrounding 
country I think I know what climate means. 

There are two seasons: spring, beginning about No- 
vember and running on into April; autumn, beginning 
in April and filling out the remaining six months. 
Winter and summer are simply left out. There is no 
great cold (snow has fallen but six times in the his- 
tory of the city) and no great heat (84 degrees was 
the highest temperature registered during an unusual 
''hot spell" which occurred just before our visit). It 
is, however, a celebrated peculiarity of the San Fran- 
cisco climate that between shade and sun there is a 
difiference so great as to make light winter clothing 
comfortable on one side of the street, and summer 
clothing on the other. The most convenient clothing, 
upon the whole, I found to be of medium weight, and 
as soon as the sun had set I sometimes felt the need of a 
light overcoat. 

One of the finest things about the California weather 
is its absolute reliability. In the rainy season of spring, 
rain is expected and people go prepared for it ; but with 
the arrival of the sunny season, the rain is really over, 
and thereafter you need not fear for your straw hat or 
your millinery, as the case may be. 

Small wonder that the Californian loves to talk about 

477 



ABROAD AT HOME 

his climate. He loves to discuss it for the same reason 
the New Yorker loves to discuss money: because, with 
him, it is the fundamental thing. All through the West, 
but particularly on the Pacific Coast, men and women 
alike lead outdoor lives, compared with which the out- 
door lives of Easterners are labored and pathetic. The 
man or woman in California who does not know what 
it is to ride and camp and shoot is an anomaly. Apropos 
of this love of outdoors, I am reminded that the head 
of a large department store informed me that, in San 
Francisco, rainy days bring out the largest shopping 
crowds, because people like to spend the sunny ones 
in the open. Also, I noticed for myself, that small shop- 
keepers think so much of the climate that in many in- 
stances they cannot bear to bar it out, even at night, but 
have permanent screen fronts in their stores. 

All the year round, flowers are for sale at stands on 
corners, in the San Francisco streets, and if you think 
we have no genre in America, if you think there is noth- 
ing in this country to compare with your memories of 
picturesque little scenes in Europe — scenes involving 
such things as the dog-drawn wagons of Belgium; 
Dutch girls in wooden shoes, bending at the waist to 
scrub a sidewalk ; embroidered peasants at a Breton par- 
don; proud beggars at an Andalusian railway station; 
mysterious hooded Arabs at Gibraltar; street singers 
in Naples; flower girls in the costume of the campagna, 
at the Spanish Steps in Rome — if you think we cannot 
match such bits of color, then you should see the flower 

478 



SAN FRANCISCO 

stands of San Francisco upon some holiday, when Chi- 
nese girls are bargaining for blooms. 

But I am talking only of this one part of California. 
When one considers the whole State, one is forced to 
admit that it is a natural wonder-place. It is every- 
thing. In its ore-filled mountains it is Alaska; to the 
south it is South America; I have looked out of a train 
window and seen a perfect English park, only to realize 
suddenly that it had not been made by gardeners, but 
was the sublimated landscape gardening which Nature 
gave to this state of states. I have eaten Parisian 
meals in San Francisco and drunk splendid wines, and 
afterwards I have been told that our viands and bev- 
erages had, without exception, been produced in Cali- 
fornia — unless one counts the gin in the cocktail which 
preceded dinner. But that is only part of it. With 
her hills San Francisco is Rome; with her harbor she 
is Naples; with her hotels she is New York, But with 
her clubs and her people she is San Francisco — which, 
to my mind, comes near being the apotheosis of praise. 

So far as I know American cities San Francisco 
stands out amongst them like some beautiful, fascinat-' 
ing creature who comes suddenly into a roomful of 
mediocrities. She is radiant, she has charm and allure, 
those qualities which are gifts of the gods, and which, 
though we recognize them instantly when we meet them, 
we are unable to describe. 

I have not forgotten the charm of Detroit, nor the stu- 
pendousness of Chicago, but — there is only one Paris 

479 



ABROAD AT HOME 

and only one San Francisco. San Francisco does not 
look at all like Paris, and while it has a large foreign 
population the people one meets are, for the most part, 
pure-blooded Americans, yet all the time I was there, I 
found myself thinking of the place as a city that was 
somehow foreign. It is full of that splendid vigor which 
one learns to expect of young American cities ; yet it is 
full of something else — something Latin. The out- 
look upon life even of its most American inhabitants 
is touched with a quality that is different. The climate 
works its will upon them as climate does on people 
everywhere. Here it makes them lively and spontane- 
ous. They are able to do more (including more sitting 
up at night) than people do in New York, and it seems 
to tell upon them less. They love good times and, again 
owing to the climate, they are able to have them out of 
doors. 

The story of the Portola fete, as told me by a San 
Franciscan, nicely illustrates that, and also shows the 
San Francisco point of view. 

*Tn 1907," he informed me, "we decided to put over a 
big out-door New Year's fete, with dancing in the 
streets, the way they have it in Paris on the Fourteenth 
of July. But at the last minute it rained and spoiled the 
outdoor part of the fun. Once in a while, you see, that 
can happen even in San Francisco. 

"Everybody agreed that we ought to have a regular es- 
tablished festival, and as we did n't want to have it 
spoiled a second time, we hunted up the weather records 

480 



SAN FRANCISCO 

and found that in the history of the city there had never 
been rain between October seventeenth and twenty-ninth. 
That estabhshed the time for our fete; the next thing 
was to discover an excuse for it. That was not so easy. 
After digging through a lot of history we found that 
Don Caspar de Portola discovered San Francisco Bay 
October twenty-second, 1679 — or maybe it was 1769 — 
that does n't matter. Nobody had ever heard of Portola 
until then, but now we have dragged him out of oblivion 
and made quite a boy of him, all as an excuse to have a 
good time." 

"Then you don't celebrate New Year's out here?" I 
asked. 

"Don't we though !" he exclaimed. "You ought to be 
here for our New Year's fete. It is one of the most 
spontaneous shows of the kind you '11 see anywhere. 
It 's not a tough orgy such as you have on Broadway 
every New Year's Eve, with a lot of drunks sitting 
around in restaurants under signs saying 'Champagne 
Only' — I 've seen that. We just have a lot of real fun, 
mostly in the streets. 

"One thing you can count on out here. We celebrate 
everything that can be celebrated, and the beauty of a lot 
of our good times is that they have a way of just break- 
ing loose instead of being cooked-up in advance. It has 
often happened that on Christmas Eve some great singer 
or musician would appear in the streets and sing or play 
for the crowds. A hundred thousand people heard Tet- 
razzini when she did that four years ago. Bispham and 

481 



ABROAD AT HOME 

a lot of other big singers have done the same thing, and 
three years ago, on Christmas Eve, Kubehk played for 
the crowds in the streets. Somehow I think that musi- 
cians and artists of all kinds have a warm feeling for 
San Francisco, and want to show us that they have." 

There can be no doubt that that is true. Many artists 
have inhabited San Francisco, and the city has always 
been beloved by them ; especially, it sometimes seems, by 
the writing group. Mark Twain records that on his ar- 
rival he "fell in love with the most cordial and sociable 
city in the Union," and countless other authors, from 
Stevenson down, have paid their tribute. 

As might be expected of a country so palpitantly beau- 
tiful and alive, California has produced many artists in 
literature and the other branches, and has developed 
many others who, having had the misfortune to be born 
elsewhere, possessed, at least, the good judgment to move 
to California while still in the formative period. 

Sitting around a table in a cafe, one night, with a 
painter, a novelist and a newspaper man, I set them all to 
making lists, from memory, of persons following the 
arts, who may be classified as Californians by birth or 
long residence. 

The four most prominent painters listed were Arthur 
F. Mathews, Charles Rollo Peters, Charles J. Dickman 
and Francis McConias, all of them men standing very 
high in American art. Among sculptors were men- 
tioned Robert Aitken, Arthur Putnam, Haig Patigian 
and Douglas Tilden. Of writers there is a deluge. - 

482 



SAN FRANCISCO 

Besides Mark Twain and Stevenson, the names of 
Bret Harte, Frank Norris, and Joaquin Miller are, of 
course, historic in connection with the State. Among 
living writers born in California were listed Gertrude 
Atherton, Jack London, Lloyd Osbourne, Austin Strong, 
Ernest Peixotto and Kathleen Norris; while among 
those born elsewhere who have migrated to California, 
were set down the names of Harry Leon Wilson, 
Stewart Edward White, James Hopper, Mary Austin, 
Grace MacGowan Cooke, Alice MacGowan, Rufus Steele 
and Bertha Runkle. Still another group of writers who 
do not now reside in California are, nevertheless, associ- 
ated with the State because of having lived there in the 
past. Among these are Wallace and Will Irwin, Gelett 
Burgess, Eleanor Gates, Kate Douglas Wiggin, Edwin 
Markham, George Sterling, Richard Tully, Jack Hines 
and Arno Dosch. 

At this juncture it occurs to me that, quite regardless 
of the truth, I had better say that I have not set down 
these names according to any theories of mine about the 
order of their importance, but that I have copied them 
off as they came to me on lists made by other persons, 
who shall be sheltered to the last by anonymity. 

All the names so far mentioned were furnished by the 
painter and the novelist. The newspaper man kept me 
waiting a long time for his list. At last he gave it to me, 
and lo ! Harrison Fisher's name led all the rest. Henry 
Raliegh and Rae Irvin, illustrators, were also listed, but 
the formidable California showing came with the cate- 

483 



ABROAD AT HOME 

gory of cartoonists and ''comic artists" employed on New 
York newspapers. Of these the following were set 
down as products of the Golden State : Bud Fisher, Igoe, 
and James Swi«nerton of the ''American" ; Tom McNa- 
mara, Hal Cauffman, George Harriman, Hershfield, and 
T. A. Dorgan ("Tad") of the "Journal"; Goldberg of 
the "Evening Mail"; R. E. Edgren of the "World"; 
Robert Carter of the "Sun"; and Ripley of the "Globe." 
The late Homer Davenport of the "American" also came 
to New York from San Francisco. This list, covering 
as it does all but a handful of the cartoonists and "funny 
men" of the New York papers, seems to me hardly less 
remarkable than this further list of "artists" of another 
variety who trace back to California : James J. Corbett, 
Jim Jeffries, Joe Choynski, Jimmy Britt, Abe Attell, 
Willie Ritchie, Eddie Hanlon and Frankie Neil; with 
Jack Johnson and Stanley Ketchell added for the reason 
that, although not actual native products, they "devel- 
oped" in California. 

Perhaps after having given California her artistic due 
in this handsome manner, and being, myself, well out of 
the State, this may be the best time to touch upon a sensi- 
tive point. As the reader may have observed, I always 
try to evade responsibility when playing with fire, and if 
one does that with fire, it becomes all the more necessary 
to observe the same rule in the case of earthquakes. 

In this instance the best way out of it for me seems to 
be to put the blame on Baedeker, who, in his little red 
book, declares that "earthquakes occur occasionally in 

484 



SAN FRANCISCO 

San Francisco, but have seldom been destructive," after 
which he recites that in 1906 "a severe earthquake last- 
ing about a minute" visited the city, that "the City Hall 
became a mass of ruins but, on the whole, few of the 
more solid structures were seriously injured." 

San Francisco is notoriously sensitive upon this sub- 
ject, and her sensitiveness is not difficult to understand. 
For one thing, earthquakes, interesting though they may 
be as demonstrations of the power of Nature, are not 
generally considered a profitable form of advertising for 
a city, although, curiously enough, they seem, like vol- 
canic eruptions, to visit spots of the greatest natural 
beauty. For another thing San Francisco feels that 
"earthquake" is really a misnomer for her disaster, and 
that this fact is not generally understood in such remote 
and ill-informed localities as, for instance, the Island of 
Manhattan. 

There is not a little justice in this contention. How- 
ever the city may have been "shaken down" in the past, 
by corrupt politicians, the quake did no such thing. All 
the damage done by the actual trembling of the ground 
might have been repaired at a cost of a few millions, had 
not the quake started the fire and at the same time de- 
stroyed the means of fighting it. Baedeker, always con- 
servative, estimates the fire loss at three hundred and 
fifty millions. 

Furthermore, it is contended in San Francisco that the 
city is not actually in the earthquake belt. Scientists 
have examined the earthquake's fault-line, and have de- 

485 



ABROAD AT HOME 

clared that it comes down the coast to a point some miles 
north of the city, where it obHgingly heads out to sea, 
passing around San Francisco, and coming ashore again 
far to the south. 

While, to my mind, this seems to indicate an extraor- 
dinary degree of good-nature on the part of an earth- 
quake, I have come, through a negative course of reason- 
ing, to accept it as true. For it so happens that I have 
discussed literature with a considerable number of scien- 
tific men, and I cannot but conclude from the experience 
that they must know an enormous amount about other 
matters. Therefore, on earthquakes, I am bound en- 
tirely by their decisions, and I believe that all well- 
ordered earthquakes will be so bound, and that the only 
chance of future trouble from this source, in San Fran- 
cisco, might arise through a visit from some irrespon- 
sible, renegade quake which was not a member of the 
regular organization. 

As to San Francisco's ''touchiness" upon the subject 
there is this much more to be said. A cow is rumored 
to have kicked over a lamp and started the Chicago Fire. 
An earthquake kicked over a building and started the 
San Francisco Fire. People do not refer to the Chicago 
Fire as the ''Cow." Why then should they refer to the 
San Francisco Fire as the "Earthquake"? That is the 
way they reason at the Golden Gate. But however that 
may be, the important fact is this: the Chicago Fire 
taught that city a lesson. When Chicago wms rebuilt 

in brick and stone, instead of wood, another cow could 

486 



SAN FRANCISCO 

kick over another lamp without endangering the whole 
town. The same story is repeated in San Francisco. 
The city has been magnificently reconstructed. Another 
quake might kick over another building, but the city 
would not go as it did before, because, aside from the 
fact that the main part of it is now unburnable, as nearly 
as that may be said of any group of buildings, the most 
elaborate system of fire-protection has been installed, so 
that if, in future, water connections are broken at one 
point, or two points, or several points, there will still be 
plenty of water from other sources. 

As an outsider, in love with San Francisco, who has yet 
had the temerity to mention the forbidden word, I may 
perhaps venture a little farther and suggest that it is 
time for sensitiveness over the word ''earthquake" to 
cease. 

Let us use what word we like: the fact remains that 
the disaster brought out magnificent qualities in San 
Francisco's people; they were victorious over it; they 
have fortified themselves against a repetition of it ; they 
transformed catastrophe into opportunity. Already, I 
think, many San Franciscans understand that the cata- 
clysm was not an unmixed evil, and I believe that, strange 
though it may seem, there will presently come a time 
when, for all their half-melancholy ''before the fire" talk, 
they will admit that on the whole it was a good thing. 
For it is granted to but few cities and few men to really 
begin life anew. 



487 



CHAPTER XXXVIII 



''BEFORE THE FIRE" 

SAN FRANCISCANS love to show their city off. 
Nevertheless they take a curious delight in coun- 
tering against the enthusiasm o£ the alien with a 
solemn wag of the head and the invariable : 

rseen 
felt 



"Ah, but you should have 



- it before the Fire !" 



tasted 

smelled 

.heard . 

They say that about everything, old and new. They 
say it indiscriminately, without thought of what it means. 
They love the sound of it, and have made it a fixed habit. 
They say it about districts and buildings, about hotels, 
and the Barbary Coast (which is much like the old 
Bowery, in New York, and where ragtime dancing is said 
to have originated), and the Presidio (the military post, 
overlooking the sea), and Golden Gate Park (a semi- 
tropical wonder-place, built on what used to be sand 
dunes, and guarded by Park Policemen who carry lassos 
with which to stop runaways), and Chinatown, and the 
Fish Market (which resembles a collection of still-life 
studies by William M. Chase), and the Bank Exchange 

488 



''BEFORE THE FIRE" 

(which is not a commercial institution, but a venerable 
bar, presided over by Duncan Nicol, who came around 
the Horn with his eye-glasses over his ear, where he 
continues to wear them while mixing Pisco cocktails). 
They say it also of "Ernie" and his celebrated "Number 
Two" cocktail, with a hazelnut in it ; and of the St. Fran- 
cis Hotel (which is one of the best run and most per- 
fectly cosmopolitan hotels in the country), and of the 
Fairmont Hotel (a wonderful pile, commanding the city 
and the bay as Bertolini's commands the city and the bay 
of Naples), and the Palace Hotel (where drinks are 
twenty-five cents each, as in the old days; where ripe 
olives are a specialty, and where, over the bar, hangs 
Maxfield Parrish's "Pied Piper," balancing the conti- 
nent against his "Old King Cole," in the Knickerbocker 
bar, in New York). They say it about the Cliff House, 
(with its Sorrento setting, its seals barking on the rocks 
below, and its hectic turkey-trotting nights), about 
Tait's, and Solari's, and the Techau, and Frank's, and 
the Poodle Dog, and Marchand's, and Coppa's, and all 
the other restaurants; about the private dining-rooms 
(which are a San Francisco specialty), about the pretty 
girls (which are another specialty), about the clubs 
(which are still another), about cable-cars, taxicabs, 
flowers, shrimps, crabs, sand-dabs (which are fish almost 
as good as English sole), and about everything else. 
They use it instead of "if you please," "thank you," 
"good-morning," and "good-night." If there are no 
strangers to say it to they say it to one another. If you 

489 



ABROAD AT HOME 

admire a man's wife and children he will say it, and 
the same thing occurs if you approve of his new hat. 

If the old San Francisco was indeed so far superior to 
the new, then Bagdad in the days of Haroun-al-Raschid 
would have been but a dull prairie town, compared with 
it. 

But was it? 

The San Francisco attitude upon this subject reminds 
me of that of the old French Royalists. 

A friend of mine, an American living in Paris, hap- 
pened to inquire of a venerable Marc[uis concerning the 
Palais de Glace, where Parisians go to skate. 

"Ah, yes," replied the ancient aristocrat, raising his 
shoulders contemptuously, ''one hears that the world 
now goes to skate under a roof, upon ice manufactured. 
Truly, all is changed, my friend. I assure you it was 
not like this under the Empire. In those times the lakes 
in the Bois used to freeze. But they do so no longer. 
It is not to be expected. Bah ! This sacrc Republic !" 

While in San Francisco, I noted down a number of 
odd items, some of them unimportant, which, when added 
together, have much to do with the flavor of the town. 
Having used the word "flavor," I may as well begin with 
drinks. 

Drinks cut an important figure in San Francisco life, 
as is natural in a wine-producing country. The merit of 
the best California wines is not appreciated in the East. 
Some of them are very good — much better, indeed, than 

490 



"BEFORE THE FIRE" 

a great deal of the imported wine brought from Europe. 
I have even tasted a CaHfornia champagne which com- 
pares creditably with the ordinary run of French cham- 
pagne, though when it comes to special vintages, Cali- 
fornia has not attained the French level. 

It is a general custom, in public bars and clubs to 
shake dice for drinks, instead of clamoring to "treat," 
according to the silly eastern custom, which as every one 
knows, often causes men to drink more than they wish 
to, just to be "good fellows." The free lunch, in con- 
nection with bars, is developed more highly in San Fran- 
cisco than in any other city that I know of; also. East- 
erners will be surprised to find small onions, or nuts, in 
their cocktails, instead of olives. A popular cocktail on 
the Coast is the "Honolulu," which is like the familiar 
"Bronx," excepting that pineapple juice is used in place 
of orange juice. 

When my companion and I were in San Francisco a 
prohibition wave was threatening. Such a movement in 
a wine-producing country engenders very strong feeling, 
and I found, attached to the bills-of-fare in various res- 
taurants, earnest pleas, addressed to voters, to turn out 
and cast their ballots against the temperance menace. 

Of prohibition the town had already had a taste — if 
one may use the expression. The reform movement 
had struck the Barbary Coast, the rule, at the time of our 
visit, being that there should be no dancing where alco- 
holic drinks were served, and no drinks where there was 
dancing. This law was enforced and it made the former 

491 



ABROAD AT HOME 

region of festivity a sad place. Even the sailors and 
marines sitting about the dance-halls, consuming beer- 
substitutes, at a dollar a bottle, were melancholy figures, 
appearing altogether unresponsive to the sirens who 
surrounded them. 

Ordinary drinks at most bars in San Francisco are 
fifteen cents each, or two for a quarter, as in most other 
cities. That is to say, two drinks for "two bits." 

Like the American mill, or the English Guinea, the 
*'bit," familiar on the Pacific Slope, is not a coin. The 
Californian will ask for change for a "quarter," or a 
"half," as we do in the East, but in making small pur- 
chases he will ask for two, or four, or six "bits' worth," 
a "bit" representing twelve-and-a-half cents. In the 
old days there were also "short bits" and "long bits," 
meaning, respectively ten cents, and fifteen cents, but 
these terms with their implied scorn of the copper cent, 
have died out. 

The humble penny is, however, still regarded con- 
temptuously in San Francisco. Until quite recently all 
newspapers published there sold at five cents each, and 
that is still true of the morning papers, the "Chronicle" 
and the "Examiner." Lately the "Call" and the "Bulle- 
tin," evening papers, have dropped in price to one cent 
each, but when the princely Son of the Golden West buys 
them, he will frequently pay the newsboy with a nickel, 
ignoring the change. Nor is the newsboy to be outdone 
in magnificence : when a five-cent customer asks for one 
paper the boy will very likely hand him both. They un- 

492 



"BEFORE THE FIRE" 

dcrstand each other, these two, and meet on terms of a 
noble mutual liberality. 

As to Chinatown, those who knew it before the fire de- 
clare that its charm is gone, but my companion and I 
found interest in its shops, its printing offices and, most 
of all, in its telephone exchange. 

The San Francisco Telephone Directory has a section 
devoted to Chinatown, in which the names of Chinese 
subscribers are printed in both English and Chinese 
characters. Thus, if I wish to telephone to Boo Gay, 
Are Too, Chew Chu & Co., Doo Kee, Fat Hoo, the 
Gee How Tong, Gum Hoo, Flang Far Low, Jew Bark, 
Joke Key, King Gum, Shee Duck Co., Tin Hop & Co., 
To To Bete Shy, Too Too Guey, Wee Chun, Wing On & 
Co., Yet Bun Hung, Yet Ho, Yet You, or Yue Hock, all 
of whom I find in the directory — if I wish to telephone to 
them, I can look them up in English and call ''China 148," 
or whatever the number may be. But if a Chinaman 
who cannot read English wishes to call, he calls by name 
only, which makes it necessary for operators to remem- 
ber not merely the name and number of each Chinese 
subscriber, but to speak English and Chinese — including 
the nine Chinese provincial dialects. 

The operators are, of course, Chinese girls, and the 
exchange, which has over a thousand subscribers, repre- 
senting about a tenth of the population of the Chinese 
district, is under the management of Mr. Loo Kum Shu, 
who was born in California and educated at the Uni- 
versity of California. His assistant, Mr. Chin Sing, 

493 



ABROAD AT HOME 

is also a native of the State, and is a graduate of the San 
Francisco public schools. 

For a "soulless corporation" the Pacific Telephone and 
Telegraph Company has shown a good deal of imagina- 
tion in constructing and equipping its Chinatown ex- 
change. The building with its gaily decorated pagoda 
roof and balconies, makes a colorful spot in the center of 
Chinatown. Inside it is elaborately frescoed with drag- 
ons and other Chinese designs, while the woodwork 
is of ebony and gold. The switchboard is carved and is 
set in a shrine, and this fascinating incongruity, with 
the operators, all dressed in the richly colored silk cos- 
tumes of their ancient civilization, poking in plugs, pull- 
ing them out, chattering now in English, now in Chinese, 
teaches one that anachronism may, under some condi- 
tions, be altogether charming. 

One rumor concerning San Francisco restaurants ap- . 
pealed to my sinful literary imaginings. I had heard 
that these establishments resembled those of Paris, not 
only in cuisine, but because, as in Paris, the proprietors 
did not deem it necessary to stipulate that private dining- 
rooms should never be occupied save by parties of more 
than two. 

Of one of these restaurants, in particular, I had been 
told the most amazing tales: A taxi would drive into 
the building by a sort of tunnel ; great doors would close 
instantly behind it ; it would run onto a large elevator and 

494 



''BEFORE THE FIRE" 

be taken bodily to some floor above, where the occupants 
would alight practically at the door of their clandestine 
meeting-place — an exquisite little apartment, decorated 
like the boudoir of some royal favorite. If it were in- 
deed true that such a picturesquely shocking place ex- 
isted, I intended — entirely in the interest of my readers, 
you will understand — to see it; and honesty forces me 
to add that I hoped, with journalistic immorality, that it 
did exist. 

One night I went there. True, the conditions were 
somewhat prosaic. It was quite late ; my companion and 
I were tired, but we were near the end of our stay in San 
Francisco, and I insisted upon his accompanying me to 
the mysterious cafe, although he protested violently — not 
on moral grounds, but because he is sufficiently sophis- 
ticated to know that there is no subject upon which ex- 
aggeration gives itself carte blanche as it does when de- 
scribing gilded vice. 

The taxi did drive in through a kind of tunnel — a place 
suggesting coal wagons — but there were no massive, 
silent doors to close behind it. Passing into an inner 
court, which was like an empty garage, it stopped beside 
a little door. 

"Where is the elevator?" I asked the taxi driver. 

*Tn there," he answered, indicating the door. 

"But," I complained, 'T heard that there was a big ele- 
vator here, that took taxis right up stairs." 

"There ain't," he said, succinctly. 

495 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Telling him to wait, we entered the door and came 
upon an elevator and a solitary waiter, whom we in- 
formed of our desire to see the place. 

Obligingly he took us to an upper floor and opening 
the door of an apartment, showed us in. 

"Of course," he said, "all of them are not so fine as 
this." 

Alas for my imaginings, here was no rose-pink bou- 
doir, no scene for a romantic meeting, but a room like 
one of those frightful parlor "sets" one sometimes sees 
in the cheapest moving pictures. However, in the 
movies one is spared the color of such a room ; one may 
see that the wallpaper is of hideous design, but one can- 
not see its ghastly scrambled browns and greens and 
purples. As I glanced at the various furnishings it 
seemed to me that each was uglier than the last, and 
when finally my eye fell upon an automatic piano in a 
sort of combination of dark oak and art nouveau, with a 
stained glass front and a nickel in the slot attachment, 
my dream of a setting for sumptuous and esthetic sin 
was dead. It was a room in which adventure would 
taste like stale beer. 

My companion placed a nickel in the slot that fed the 
terrible piano. There was a whirring sound, succeeded, 
not by low seductive strains, but by a sudden din of rag- 
time which crashed upon our ears as the decorations had 
upon our eyes. 

Hastily I moved towards the door. My companion 

followed. 

496 







The switchboard of the Chinatown telephone exchange is set 
in a shrine and the operators are dressed in Chinese silks 



"BEFORE THE FIRE" 

"If the gentlemans would wish to see some other apart- 
ments — ?" suggested the obliging waiter, as we closed 
the door. 

"Oh, no thanks," I said. "This gives us a good idea 
of it." 

As we moved towards the elevator the waiter asked 
politely: "The gentlemans have never been in here be- 
fore?" 

"No," I said, "we don't live in San Francisco. We 
had heard about this place and wanted to see it before we 
went away." 

"It is a famous place," he said. Then, with a shake 

of the head, he added, "But before the Fire Ah, 

the gentlemans should have seen it then!" 



497 



CHAPTER XXXIX 
AN EXPOSITION AND A "BOOSTER" 

THE Panama Pacific Exposition will unquestion- 
ably be the most beautiful exposition ever held 
in the world. Its setting is both accessible and 
lovely, for it has the city upon one side and the bay and 
the Golden Gate upon the other. 

Instead of being smooth and white like those of prev- 
ious World's Fairs, the buildings have the streaked tex- 
ture of travertine stone, with a general coloring some- 
what warmer than that of travertine. Domes, door- 
ways and other architectural details are rich in soft 
greens and blues, and the whole group of buildings, 
viewed from the hills behind, resembles more than any- 
thing else a great architectural drawing by Jules Guerin, 
made into a reality. And that, in effect, is what it is, 
for Guerin has ruled over everything that has to do with 
color, from the roads which will have a warm reddish 
tone, to the mural decorations and the lighting. 

The exposition will hold certain records from the 
start- It will be the first great exposition ever held in a 
seaport. It will be, if I mistake not, the first to be ready 
on time. It will be the first held to celebrate a contempo- 
raneous event, and its contemporaneousness will be re- 

498 



AN EXPOSITION AND A "BOOSTER" 

fleeted in its exhibitions, for, with the exception of a loan 
collection of art, nothing will be shown which has not 
been produced since the St. Louis Exposition of 1904. 
Also, I am informed, it is the first American exposition 
to have an appropriation for mural paintings. True, 
there were mural paintings at the Chicago World's Fair, 
but they were not provided for by appropriation, having 
been paid for by the late Frank Millet, with money saved 
from other things. 

Of the painters who will have mural decorations at 
the Exposition, but one, Frank Brangwyn, is not an 
American. Also, but one is a Californian, that one be- 
ing Arthur F. Mathews. 

The only mural decorations in the Fine Arts Building 
will be eight enormous panels by Robert Reid, in the in- 
terior of the dome, eighty feet above the floor. Four of 
the panels symbolize Art; the others the '-four golds of 
California": poppies, citrus fruits, metallic gold and 
golden wheat. Among the various excursions to the 
Exposition, I hope there will be one for old-school mural 
decorators — men who paint stiff central figures in brick- 
red robes, enthroned, and surrounded by cog-wheels, pro- 
pellers, and bales of cotton, with the invariable male fig- 
ures petrified at a forge upon one side, and the invariable 
inert mothers and children upon the other — I hope there 
will be an excursion to take such painters out and show 
them the brave swirl and sweep of line, the light, and the 
nacreous color which this artist has thrown into his 
decorations at the Fair. 

499 



ABROAD AT HOME 

Aside from the work of Mr. Reid, Edward Simmons 
has done two large frieze panels of great beauty, Frank 
Vincent Du Mond, two others, Childe Hassam, a lunette 
in most exquisite tones, and William de Leftwich Dodge, 
Milton H. Bancroft and Charles Holloway, other can- 
vases, so that, the finished exposition will be fairly jew- 
eled with mural paintings. 

It is hard to write about expositions and mural paint- 
ings, without seeming to infringe upon the prerogatives 
of Baedeker, and it is particularly difficult to do so if one 
has happened to be shown about by a professional 
shower-about of the singularly voluble type we encoun- 
tered at the Exposition. 

To the reader who has followed my companion and 
me in our peregrinations, now drawing to a close, it will 
be unnecessary to say that by the time we reached the 
Pacific Coast, we believed we had encountered every kind 
of "booster" that creeps, crawls, walks, crows, cries, 
bellows, barks or brays. 

But we had not. It remained for the San Francisco 
Exposition to show us a new specimen, the most amaz- 
ing, the most appalling, the most unbelievable of all : the 
booster who talks like a book. 

It was on the day before we left for home that we were 
delivered up to him. We had been keeping late hours, 
and were tired in a happy, drowsy sort of way, so that 
the prospect of being wafted through the morning sun- 
shine to the exposition grounds, in an open automobile, 
and cruising about, among the buildings, without alight- 

500 



AN EXPOSITION AND A "BOOSTER" 

ing, and without care or worry, was particularly pleas- 
ing to us. 

The automobile came at the appointed hour, and with 
it the being who was to be our pilot. Full of confidence 
and trust, we got into the car, but we had not proceeded 
more than a few blocks, and heard our cicerone speak 
more than a few hundred thousand words, before our 
bosoms became filled with that "vague unrest" which, 
though you may never have experienced it yourself, you 
have certainly read about before. 

I had not planned to have any vague unrest in this 
book, but it stole in upon me, unexpectedly, out there by 
the Golden Gate, just at the end of my journey, when I 
was off my guard, believing that the perils of the trip 
were past. 

We had driven in that automobile but a few minutes, 
and had heard our guide speak not more than two hun- 
dred and fifty or three hundred thousand words, when 
my first vague feeling turned into a certainty that all 
was not for the best; and when I caught the eye of my 
companion and saw that its former drowsy look had 
given place to one of wild alarm, I knew that he shared 
my apprehension. 

By the time we reached the fair grounds I had be- 
come so perturbed that I hardly knew where we were. 

"Stop here," I heard our captor say to the chauffeur. 

The car drew up between two glorious terracotta pal- 
aces. Directly ahead was the blue bay, and beyond it 
rose Mount Tamalpais in a gray-green haze. Our cus- 

501 



ABROAD AT HOME 

todian arose from his seat, stepped to the front of the 
tonneau, and turning, fixed first one of us and then 
the other with a gaze that seemed to eat its way into 
our vitals. Through an awful moment of portentous 
silence we stared back at him like fascinated idiots. He 
raised one arm and swept it around the horizon. Then, 
of a sudden, he was off: 

"Born a drowsy Spanish hamlet, fed on the intoxi- 
cants of man's lust for gold, developed by an adven- 
turous and a baronial agriculture, isolated throughout 
its turbulent history from the home lands of its diverse 
peoples, and compelled to the outworking of its own 
ethical and social standards, the sovereign City of San 
Francisco has developed within her confines an indi- 
viduality and a versatility, equaled by but few other 
cities, and surpassed by none." 

At that point he took a breath, and a fresh start : 

*Tt mellowed the sternness of the Puritan and dis- 
ciplined the dashing Cavalier. It appropriated the un- 
rivaled song and pristine art of the Latin. Every good 
thing the Anglo-Saxon, Celt, Gaul, Iberian, Teuton or 
almond-eyed son of Confucius had to ofTer, it seized 
upon and made part of its life." 

Another breath, and it began again: 

"Here is no thralldom of the past, but a trying of all 
things on their merits, and a searching of every pro- 
posal or established institution by the one test: Will 
it make life happier? " 

As he went on I was becoming conscious of an over- 

502 



AN EXPOSITION AND A "BOOSTER" 

mastering desire to do something to stop him. I felt 
that I must interrupt to save my reason, so I pointed in 
the direction of Mount Tamalpais, and cried : 

"What is that, over there?" 

His eyes barely flickered towards the mountain, as 
he answered: 

"That is Mount Tamalpais which may be reached by 
a journey of nineteen miles by ferry, electric train and 
steam railroad. This lofty height rears itself a clean 
half-mile above the sparkling waters of our unrivaled 
bay. The mountain itself is a domain of delight. 
From its summit the visitor may see what might be 
termed the ground plan of the greatest landlocked har- 
bor on the Pacific Ocean, and of the region surrounding 
it — a region destined to play so large a part in the af- 
fairs of men." 

"Good God!" I heard my companion ejaculate in an 
agonized whisper. 

But if our tormentor overheard he paid not the least 
attention. 

"We know," he continued in his sing-song tone, "that 
you will find here what you never found, and never can 
find, elsewhere. We shall try to augment your pleasure 
by indicating something of its origin in the city's ro- 
mantic past. We shall give you your bearings in time 
and place. We shall endeavor to make smooth your 
path. We shall tell you what to seek and how to find 
it, and mayhap, what it means. We shall endeavor 
to endow you with the eyes to see, the ears to hear, 

503 



ABROAD AT HOME 

and the heart to understand. In short, it is to help 
the visitor to comprehend, appreciate and enjoy 'the 
City Loved Around the World,' with its surpassingly 
beautiful environs, that this little handbook is issued." 

"That zvhat?" shrieked my companion. 

The human guidebook calmly corrected himself. 

''That I am here with you to-day," he said. 

Through two interminable hours the thing went on 
and on like that. Several times, in the first hour, we 
tried to stop him by this means or that, but after awhile 
we learned that interruptions only opened other flood- 
gates, and that it was best, upon the whole, to try to 
cultivate a state of inner numbness, and let his voice 
roll on. 

Sometimes I fancied that I was becoming passive and 
resigned. Then suddenly a wave of hate would come 
boiling up inside me, and my fingers would itch to be at 
the man's throat: to strangle him, not rapidly, but 
slowly, so that he would suffer. I wanted to see his 
tongue hang out, his eyes bulge, and his face turn blue ; 
to see him swell up, as he kept generating words, inside, 
until at last, being unable to emit them, he should burst, 
like an overcharged balloon. 

Once or twice I was on the verge of leaping at him, 
but then I would think to myself: "No; I must not 
consider my own pleasure. If I kill him it will get into 
the New York papers, and my family and friends will 
not understand it, because they have not heard him 
talk." 

504 




We believed we had encountered every kind of "booster" that creeps, 
crawls, walks, crows, cries, bellows, barks or brays, but it remained for 
the Exposition to show us a new specimen 



AN EXPOSITION AND A "BOOSTER" 

Somehow or other my companion and I managed to 
survive until lunch time, but then we insisted upon be- 
ing taken back to the St. Francis. He did not want to 
take us. He did not like to let us escape, even for an 
hour, for it was only too evident that several five-foot- 
shelves of books were still inside him, eager to get 
out. 

At the door of the hotel he said: 'T could stop and 
lunch with you. In that way we would lose no time. 
Ah, there is so much to be told ! What city in the world 
can vie with San Francisco either in the beauty or the 
natural advantages of her situation? Indeed there are 
but two places in Europe — Constantinople and Gibraltar 
— that combine an equally perfect landscape with what 
may be called an equally imperial position. Yes, I think 
we had better remain together during this brief midday 
period at which, from time immemorial, it has been the 
custom of the human race to minister to the wants of the 
inner man, as the great bard puts it." 

"Thank you," said my companion, firmly. "We ap- 
preciate the offer, but we have an engagement to lunch, 
to-day, with several friends who are troubled with bu- 
bonic plague and Asiatic cholera." 

"So be it," said our warden. "I shall return for you 
within the hour. It shall be my pleasure, as well as 
my duty, to show you all points of interest, to give you 
a brief historical sketch of this coveted Mecca of men's 
dreams, to tell you of its awakening, of the bringing of 
order out of chaos, of . . ." 

505 



ABROAD AT HOME 

It was still going on as we entered the hotel, and from 
a window, we saw that he was sitting alone in the ton- 
neau, talking to himself, as the motor drove away. 

"How long will it take you to pack?" my companion 
asked me. 

''About an hour," I said. 

"There 's a train for New York at two," said he. 

We moved over to the porter's desk, and were ar- 
ranging for tickets and reservations when the Exposi- 
tion Official, who had assigned our guide to us, passed 
through the lobby. 

"Did you enjoy your morning?" he inquired. 

We gazed at him for a moment, in silence. Then, in 
a hoarse voice, I managed to say: "We shall not go 
out with him this afternoon." 

"But he is counting on it," protested the Official. 

'IVc shall not go out with, him this afternoon!" said 
my companion, in a voice that caused heads to turn. 

"Why not?" inquired the other. 

I was afraid that my companion might say something 
rude, so I replied. 

"We are going away from here," I declared. 

"Oh," said the Official, "if you have to leave town, 
it can't be helped. But if you should stay in San Fran- 
cisco and refuse to go out with him again, it might hurt 
his feelings." 

"Good !" returned my companion. "We won't go un- 
til to-morrow." 



506 



CHAPTER XL 
NEW YORK AGAIN 

ON my first night in San Francisco I sat up late, 
unpacking and distributing my things about 
my room; it was early morning when I was 
ready to retire, and it occurred to me that I had better 
leave a call. 

"Please call me at nine," I said to the telephone opera- 
tor. 

"Nine o'clock," she repeated, and in a voice like a ca- 
ress, added: "Good-night." 

It was very pleasant to be told good-night, like that, 
even though the sweet voice was strange, and came over 
a wire ; for my companion and I had been traveling for 
a long, long time, and though the strangers we had met 
had been most hospitable, and though many of them had 
soon ceased to be strangers, and had become friends, and 
though we had often said — and not without sincerity — 
that we "felt very much at home," we had now reached a 
state of mind in which we realized that, to say one "feels 
at home" when one is not actually at home, is, after all, 
to stretch the truth a little. 

I must have gone to sleep immediately and I knew 
nothing more until I was awakened in the morning by 
the tinkle of the telephone. 

507 



ABROAD AT HOME 

I jumped out of bed and answered. 

"Good-morning-, Mr. Street," came a voice even 
sweeter than that of the night before. "Nine o'clock." 

As I may have mentioned previously, I do not, as a 
rule, feel cheerful on the moment of arising, especially 
in a strange room, a strange hotel, and a strange city. 
But the pleasant personal note contained in that morn- 
ing greeting, the charming tone in which it was deliv- 
ered, and perhaps, in addition, the great warm patch 
of melted California gold which lay upon the carpet near 
my window — these things combined to make me feel 
awake, alive and happy, at the beginning of the day. 

Every night, after that, I left a call, whether I really 
wished to be called, or not, just for the sake of the 
"good-night," and the "good-morning" with my name ap- 
pended. For it is very pleasant to be known, in a great 
hotel, as something more than a mere number. 

I said to myself, "That morning operator has learned 
from the papers that I am here. She has probably read 
things I have written, and is interested in me. Doubt- 
less she boasts to her friends: 'Julian Street, the au- 
thor, is stopping down at the hotel. I call him every 
morning. He has a pleasant voice. I wish I could see 
him, once.' " 

Because of modestv I did not mention this flattering" 
attention to my companion until the day before we left 
San Francisco, and then I was only induced to speak of 
it by something which occurred when we were shopping. 

It was at Gump's — that most fascinating Oriental 

508 



NEW YORK AGAIN 

store — and having made a purchase which I wished 
them to deUver, I mentioned my name and address to 
the clerk who, however, seemed to have some difficulty in 
getting it correctly, setting me down at first as "Mr. 
Julius Sweet." 

When my companion chose to taunt me about that, 
dwelling with apparent delight upon the painfully evi- 
dent fact that my name meant nothing to the clerk, I re- 
torted : 

"That makes no difference. The telephone operator 
at the St. Francis calls me by name every morning." 

"So she does me," he returned. 

I did not believe him. I could not think that this 
beautiful young girl — I was sure that any girl with such 
a voice must be young and beautiful — would cheapen her 
vocal favors by dispensing them broadcast. For her to 
coo my name to me each morning was merely a delicate 
attention, but for her to do the same to him seemed, 
somehow, brazen. 

I pondered the matter as I went to bed that night, and 
in the morning, when the bell rang, I thought of it im- 
mediately. 

"Hello." 

"Good-morning, Mr, Street. Eight o'clock," came 
the mellifluous cadences. 

"Good-morning," I replied. "This is the last time you 
wall call me, so I want to say good-by, and thank you. 
You and the other operator always say 'good-night' 
and 'good-morning' very pleasantly and I wish you to 

509 



ABROAD AT HOME 

know I have appreciated it. And when yoti call me you 
always do so by name. That has pleased me too." 

''Thank you," she said — and oh! the dulcet tone in 
which she spoke the words. 

"How did you happen to know my name ?" I asked. 

"Oh," she replied — and seemed to hesitate for just an 
instant — "Mr. Woods has given us instructions always 
to call by name." 

"You mean in my case?" I asked, somewhat nervously, 

"In making all morning calls," she explained. "At 
night, when the night operator is n't busy, she takes the 
call list, gets the names of the people, and notes them 
down opposite the room numbers so that I can read them 
off, when I ring, in the morning. Mr. Woods says that 
it makes guests feel more at home." 

"It does," I assured her sadly. Then, in justice, I 
added: "Nevertheless you have a most agreeable 
voice." 

"It 's very kind of you to speak of it," she returned. 

"Not at all," said I. "I am writing something about 
San Francisco, and I want to know your name so that 
I can mention you as the owner of the voice." 

"Oh," she said, "are you a writer?" 

"I am," I declared firmly. 

"And you 're really going to mention me?" 

"I am if you will give me your name." 

"It 's Lulu Maguire," she said. "Will you let me 
know when it comes out?" 

"I will," said I. 

510 



NEW YORK AGAIN 

"Thank you very much," she answered. "I hope 
you '11 come again." 

"I hope so too." 

Then we said good-by. And though I cannot say of 
the angel-voiced Miss Maguire that she taught me about 
women, she did teach me something about writers, and 
something else about hotels. 



I had always fancied that an unbroken flight across 
the continent would prove fatiguing and seem very, very 
long, but however others may have found it, it seemed 
short to me. 

Looking back over the run from the Pacific Coast to 
Chicago I feel as though it had consumed but a night 
and one long, interesting day — a day full of changing 
scenes and episodes. The three things I remember best 
about the journey are the beauty of the Bad Lands, 
the wonderful squab guinea chicken I had, one night, 
for dinner, in the dining car, and the pretty girl with 
the demure expression and the mischievous blue eyes, 
who, before coming aboard at a little western station, 
kissed a handsome young cattleman good-by, and who, 
having later made friends with a gay young blade upon 
the train, kissed him good-by, also, when they parted on 
the platform in Chicago. 

Railroad travel in the West does not seem so machine- 
like as in the East. That is true in many ways. West 
of Chicago you do not feel that your train is sand- 

511 



ABROAD AT HOME 

wiched in between two other trains, one just ahead, the 
other just behind. You run for a long time without 
passing another train, and when you do pass one, it is 
something in the nature of an event, Hke passing another 
ship, at sea. So, also, on the train, the relations be- 
tween passengers and crew are not merely mechani- 
cal. You feel that the conductor is a human being, 
and that the dining-car conductor is distinctly a nice 
fellow. 

But once you pass Chicago, going east, the individual- 
ity of train officials ceases to be felt. They become 
automatons, very efficient, but cold as cogs in a machine. 
As for you, you are a unit, to be transported and fed, 
and they do transport and feed you, doing it all im- 
partially and impersonally, performing their duties with 
the most rigid decorum, and the most cold-blooded cor- 
rectness. 

Even the food in the dining-car seems to be standard- 
ized. The dishes look differently, and vary mildly in 
flavor, but there is one taste running through every- 
thing, as though the whole meal were made from some 
basic substance, colored and flavored in different ways, 
to create a variety of courses. The great primary taste 
of eastern dining-car food is, as nearly as I can hit on 
it, that of wet paper. The oysters seem to be made of 
slippery wet paper with oyster-flavor added. The soup 
is a sort of creamy essence of manilla. The chicken 
is damp paper, ground up, soaked with chicken-extract, 
and pressed into the form of a deceased bird. And, 

512 




New York — Everyone is in a hurry. Everyone is dodging everyone 
else. Everyone is trying to keep his knees from being knocked by swift- 
passing suitcases 



NEW YORK AGAIN 

above all, the salad is green tissue-paper, soaked in vine- 
gar and water. 

As with the officials, so with the passengers. They 
become frigid, too. If, forgetting momentarily that 
you are no longer in the West, you speak to the gentle- 
man who has the seat beside you in the buffet smoker, 
after dinner, he takes a long appraising look at you be- 
fore replying. Then, after answering you briefly, and 
in such a way as to give you as little information as possi- 
ble, and to impress upon you the idea that you have 
been guilty of gross familiarity in speaking to a social 
superior without having first been spoken to by him — 
then the gentleman will rise from his chair and move to 
another seat, feeling, the while, to make sure that you 
have not got his watch. 

That, gentle reader, is the sweet spirit of the civilized 
East. Easterners regard men with whom they are 
not personally acquainted as potential pickpockets; and 
men with whom they are acquainted as established 
thieves. 

On you rush towards the metropolis. The train is 
crowded. The farms, flying past, are small, and are 
divided into little fields which look cramped after the 
great open areas of the West. Towns and cities flash 
by, one after another, in quick succession, as the floors 
flash by an express elevator, shooting down its shaft 
in a skyscraper; and where there are no towns there 
are barns painted with advertisements, and great ad- 
vertising signboards disfiguring the landscape. There 

513 



ABROAD AT HOME 

are four tracks now. A passenger train roars by, sav- 
agely, on one side, and is gone, while on the other, a 
half-mile freight train tugs and squeaks and clatters. 

When the porter calls you in the morning, and you 
raise your window shade, you see no plains or moun- 
tains, but the backs of squalid suburban tenements, with 
vari-colored garments fluttering on their clothes lines, 
like the flags of some ship decked for a gala day. 

Gathering yourself and your dusty habiliments to- 
gether, you sneak shamefully to the washroom. Already 
it is full of men: men in trousers and undershirt, men 
with tousled hair and stubble chins, men with bags and 
dressing-cases spread out on the seats, splattering men, 
who immerse their faces in the swinging suds of the 
nickel-plated washbowl, and snort like seals in the aquar- 
ium. 

Ah, the East ! The throbbing, thriving, thickly-popu- 
lated East! 

Presently you get your turn at a sloppy washbowl, 
after which you slip into the stale clothing of the day 
before, and return to the body of the car, feeling half 
washed, half dressed and half dead. 

Outside are factories, and railroad yards, and every- 
where tall black chimneys, vomiting their heavy, muddy 
smoke. But always the train glides on like some swift, 
smooth river. Now the track is elevated, now de- 
pressed. You run over bridges or under them, crossing 
streets and other railroads. At last you dive into a 
tunnel and presently emerging, coast slowly along be- 

514 



NEW YORK AGAIN 

side an endless concrete platform raised to the level of 
the car floor. 

Your bags have long since been carried away by the 
Pullman porter, and you have sat for many minutes in 
the hot car, wearing the overcoat and hat into which he 
insisted upon putting you when you were yet many miles 
outside New York. 

Before the train stops you are in the narrow passage- 
way at the end of the car, lined-up with others eager to 
escape. The Redcaps run beside the vestibule. That 
is one good thing: there are always plenty of porters in 
New York. 

The Pullman porter hands your bags to a station por- 
ter, and you hand the Pullman porter something which 
elicits a swift : "Thank you, boss." 

Then, through the crowd, you make your way, behind 
your Redcap, towards the taxi-stand. In the great con- 
course, people are rushing hither and thither. Every 
one is in a hurry. Every one is dodging every one else. 
Every one is trying to keep his knees from being knocked 
by swift-passing suitcases. You feel dazed, rushed, 
jostled. 

It is always the same, the arrival in New York. The 
stranger setting foot there for the first time may, per- 
haps, sense more keenly than the returning resident, the 
magnificent fury of the city. But, upon reaching the 
metropolis after a period of exile, the most confirmed 
New Yorker must, unless his perceptions are quite ossi- 
fied, feel his imagination quicken as he is again con- 

515 



ABROAD AT HOME 

fronted by the whirling, grinding, smashing, shrieking, 
seething, writhing, gHttering, helhsh splendor of the 
City of New York. 

Never before, it seemed to me, had I felt the impact 
of the city as when I moved through the crowded con- 
course of the Pennsylvania Terminal with my compan- 
ion — the comrade of so many trains and tickets, so many 
miles and meals. 

We were at our journey's end. We were in New 
York again at last and would be in our respective homes 
as soon as taxicabs could take us to them. But, eager 
as I was to reach my home, it was with a kind of pang 
that I realized that now, for the first time in months, we 
would not drive away together in the same taxicab, but 
would part here, at the taxi-stand, and go our separate 
ways; that we would not dine together that night, nor 
sup together, nor visit in each other's rooms to talk over 
the day's doings, before turning in, nor breakfast to- 
gether in the morning, nor match coins to determine 
who should pay for things. 

When the first taxi came up there were politenesses 
between us as to which should take it — that in itself be- 
spoke the change already coming over us. 

I persuaded him to get in. We shook hands hur- 
riedly through the window. Then, with a jerk, the taxi 
started. 

As I watched it drive away, I thought : "What a fine 
thing to know that man as I know him ! Have I always 
been as considerate of him, on this trip, as I should have 

516 



NEW YORK AGAIN 

been? Was it right for me to insist on his staying up 
that night, in San Francisco, when he wanted to go to 
bed? Was it right for me to insist on his going to bed 
that night, in Excelsior Springs, when he wanted to stay 
up ? Should n't I have taken more interest in his pack- 
ing? And if I had done so, woukl he have left his razor 
in one hotel, and his pumps in another, and his bathrobe 
in another, and his kodak in another, and his umbrella 
in another, and his silver shoehorn in another, and his 
trousers in another, and his pajamas in every hotel we 
stopped in ?" 

Then my taxi drove up and I got in, and as we scurried 
out into the congested street, I kept on ruminating over 
my treatment of my traveling companion. 

"I never treated him badly," I thought. "Still, if I 
had it all to do over again I should treat him better. I 
should tuck him in at night. I should send his shoes 
to be polished and his clothes to be pressed. I should 
perform all kinds of little services for him — not because 
he deserves such treatment, but because that would get 
him under obligations to me. And it is a most desirable 
thing to get a man under obligations to you when he 
knows as much about you as that man knows about me !'* 



THE END 



517 



Ltja 



